Distant Fires
by Schweinsteiger
Summary: nBSG AU  goes Hard AU after "Exodus", but before "The Passage" . Involves Colonial/Earth storylines.  OC and Canon POV characters.  First Person POV throughout.     A Raptor pilot is seperated from the Rag Tag Fleet.
1. Chapter 1

**Act One**

SETTING THE STAGE

Quote:

"Frak, man, I just work here!"  
- LT Brendan "Hotdog" Constanza

::LT. Nikoteros "Meatshield" Adelanii::

Life, such as it was, seems to be returning to normal in the Fleet. Short rations, in both food and water, limited ordnance and fuel, civilians to care for, Cylons to flee...and, oh yes, lest we forget..."Earth" to find. If it exists. Despite the Old Man's promises, I've had my doubts for a while now.

It's only been a month or so since the Escape. New Caprica is far behind us now, though. We've been jumping more or less constantly since the battle, hoping to buy enough time to fully repair and rearm Galactica and Pegasus...as well as smooth out the rough edges of the pilots who spent more than a year mudfarming or whatever the frak they did down there. Those of us who stood by the Admiral when he tried to keep the military running don't have that problem. Didn't have to play house with the skinjobs, either...

Being a Raptor pilot by trade (though not by choice), I'm happiest scouting out the Fleets likely course, always two or three jumps ahead. Frosty thinks I'm too much of a loner (pot...kettle), but I like the quiet and the stars. Not having to deal with your crazy spouse's crazy moods for days at a stretch doesn't exactly argue against a long patrol, either. I keep that angle to myself.

I only got into this line of work becuase I was one of a fairly short list of survivors who had a Federal Aerospace Pilot Certification, once Galactica started surveying the Fleet a couple of weeks after the Fall (and, I note, after that incident on the Hangar Deck that severely contracted the number of names on the CAG's roster). The Mighty Starbuck ("You can call me...", etc) took one look at me and immediately declared my lack of "chops" for flying a Viper, which led me below decks to the loving care of Boomer and Racetrack, and thus into the wonderful world of Raptors. It meant better rations and being able to get off the Cloud Nine (dodged a bullet, there), where I was slaving away refurbishing worn out components for the FTL.

Unlike the Viper "community" (zoo, more like), Raptor jocks don't feel the need to wait and see if you survive your first furball before acknowledging your existence. 'Course, my name tends to smooth over first meetings. Mother being Admiral Nagala's hatchetwoman makes the family name one to conjure with, in the Colonial Fleet, at least. A storied military lineage doesn't hurt, either. Funny how I wanted nothing to do with Mother, the Family or the Colonial Fleet, before the bombs started falling.

This particular patrol has me surveying a fairly small star system. 4 planets orbit the Primary, a Blue Giant. 2 are standard gas giants, about half and a third the size of Ragnar, respectively. The other two are Colony Class, though one has a methane atmo and is outside the Liquid Water Zone. The remaining world is habitable, if only by a wink and a nod. The big 'scopes on Pegasus detected "odd" (thanks for nothing, Hoshi) spectrographic effects inside the orbit of the habitable planet, in close to the star. An "anomolous" object.

Thus, in I go to check it out.

Due to the lack of trained ECOs, and Apollo's reluctance to shift his precious Viper jockeys to sit in back for a few hours, I'm flying this one solo. Means I'll have to establish a stable orbit so I can leave the controls to initiate my survey from the ECO console, but you can't have everything.

**1.5 JUMP**

::LT. Nikoteros "Meatshield" Adelanii::

With the Fleet CAP providing overwatch, I began a close range flyby of the object. A thin torus, approximately 700 meters in diameter. No evident powerplant or thermal activity. Getting closer, there was a lot of micrometeorite damage visible, pitting the surface of the artifact.

"Meatshield, Starbuck. Keep an eye on your interval. Don't get out of our LOS". Worry, worry. "Yes, Mom". Raging hypocrite that she is.

"Galactica, Meatshield. The object is not of any origin that I recognize. No sign of Colonial or Cylon markings. It's been here a long time, though, judging by the sandblasting the exterior's taken from infalling particles. No moving parts on the exterior, or any power signature. Shows cold on the IR". Running reports are Rule #1 for Raptors. "Roger that, Meatshield. Galactica Actual instructs you to image the entire exterior, get close spectro readings, then burn for the Barn." "Understood, Galactica. Meatshield out."

Moving in toward the centroid of the Torus, I initiated a G-ray spectro scan (to determine what the exterior was made of).

Seconds later, Starbuck broke in. "Meatshield, Starbuck. Be advised, the Torus is in motion." My head snapped up, and I immediately saw that the Torus was beginning to spin about the centroid (me!), and was visibly picking up speed.

"Meatshield, withdraw back behind the CAP. NOW!", ordered Starbuck. I dropped the autopilot and engaged the engines. The Raptor  
hummed like a swarm of bees, but didn't shift position. Increasing to full military power, I only succeeded in making the spaceframe groan, as the thrust piled up against whatever was holding me stationery. Within a few seconds, I was forced to cut the engines off, to prevent them from compromising the hull.

"No joy, Starbuck. Something has me fixed in position. Can't power out of it without cracking my bird." Lookin out, I saw the Torus had increased it's rate of spin, to the point that the surface was just a bronze streak encircling me. The situation had developed rapidly, but my level of alarm was beginning to catch up.

"Meatshield, Galactica. The Torus is now emitting big-time, in both IR and charged particles."

"Meatshield, get out of there!" "No can do, Starbuck." A risky idea hit me: "Galactica, I'm going to try to jump out and back towards the Fleet. Wait one."

I unstrapped and hopped back to the ECO Station, as the FTL comp controls back there are single-function, so you don't have to waste time flipping through different screens on a MultiFunction Display. "Beginning jump calculations, FTL Jump in 45 seconds". The digital readout on the FTL console began spinning numbers, as the computer derived the jump solution.

Starbuck broke into my nervous vigil: "Meatshield, that thing's started to light up, and the area around you is beginning to distort". OK, I'm officially unhappy to be here.

"20 seconds to FTL jump."

"Galactica to CAP Vipers, break off and clear away".

"Negative, I'm not leaving him.", Kara shouted.

"Starbuck, get the hell out of here! 10 seconds to FTL Jump.", I chanted into the wireless.

"Meatsh...Niko! Niko!".

"FTL Jump in 5 secon...".

FLASH.

JUMP. JUMP. JUMP. JUMP. JUMP. JUMP...

**2. ARRIVAL**

::Meatshield::

The flash stole my vision, and when I regained the gift of sight...the cockpit window was filled by a shining blue and green planet, with a massive ocean, speckled with silken white clouds, front and center.

Scrambling into the pilot's seat, feeling like my brain had been dry-cleaned, I started into the diagnostic checklist that would tell me whether my bird was broken or not. Other than an error in the FTL computer, the Raptor was in excellent condition (or as much as possible, given our logistics).

That done, I took a moment to consider my situation. Obviously, the...event had moved me across some interstellar distance, since the planetary system I was in did not include any such planets. To survive, I'd have to put down on the planet, which meant I'd better see what the situation was, planetside.

Deploying the recon camera/telescope mounted under the cockpit, I began to image the coastlines of the continent currently in view. After a moment of tweaking the resolution down to 30m, I observed what appeared to be an artificial structure, enclosing a bay on the eastern coast! It was a pier! Several oceangoing were docked alongside...and an urbanized are extending inland for dozens of kilometers, with what appeared to be major transport arteries weaving throughout.

"Lords of Kobol", I breathed, "They're alive!". A technological civilization. Thriving! The Planet, or at least the region I was eyeballing, looked like Leonis or maybe Caprica. Scanning laterally, across a large ocean, a similar set of coastal-oriented conurbations was visible, dominating the landmass of the next continent.

Fuel and O2 wouldn't last forever, and sitting in low orbit wouldn't help the situation. I would have to put down. That meant dealing with the locals, preferably without being shot down. So no covert landings! I was detecting powerful DRADIS signals from ground stations, which meant sneaking down was likely to cause them to ID me as a hostile, so my approach had to show that I was making every attempt to communicate.

DRADIS was showing a spacecraft beginning a shallow-angle reentry from the west of the first continent I had looked at. Observation with optics showed a white-hulled lifting body, about 10 meters in length, with oversized thrust nozzles on the rear. Taken together with the lack of orbital traffic (aside from a truly awesome number of satellites), it indicated that these people lacked countergravity technology, and relied on thrust/weight propulsion and aerodynamic lift.

If that spacecraft was deorbiting, it had a landing field waiting for it. Following it down, squawking all the way, seemed to be the best way to show anyone at the controls of a missile battery that I was Friendly and the should be Friendly and not hit the LAUNCH button.

Piling on the DeltaV, I shifted my orbit, taking up position a couple thousand meters to the rear of the local spacecraft, which was beginning a braking maneuver to initiate descent. Matching course, angle of descent and speed, I switched on the Wireless. Narrowing the range, I tuned out the massive number of transmitters and locked in on the freq that the spacecraft was using to communicate with it's ground station. I widened my broadcast range to several dozen bands on either side, for good measure and to make damned sure lots of people heard my transmission.

Activating the wideband Wireless transmitter (meant to relay data back to distant Battlestars, through enemy jamming), I took a deep breath, almost a sob, and spoke: "Krypter, Krypter..."

::LTCol John Mahler, USAF::

I walked into the Landing Control Center, sipping my $5 coffee (which, incidentally, was not coffee-flavored), to monitor the Dream Chaser landing operation. In the unlikely event that one of the spacecraft overshoots the field and goes into the water (or undershoots, and goes into the ground like a fucking dart), my Airmen were the rescue force. Firemen, chopper pilots and Pararescue commandos...all currently finishing up our pre-operational bull session.

The PA was pumping out the golf-announcer voice of MAJ Cindy Larrsen ("US Army, thank you!"), the Dream Chaser pilot, as she began  
the series of S-turns over California that would drop the spacecraft from orbital speed to under 500 KPH when she overflew North Florida.

"Angels 250, speed 15000, all systems green, hull temperat**BBBRRRREEEEEEEEEEE**...". Panic and Old Night instantly spread outward from the CAPCOM, as a voice broke in on the channel, rattling away in some foreign language. The voice was male, young...and frightened, if I was any judge.

"**Who the fuck is on my fucking channel?**", roared the Flight Director, coming out of his seat at the rear of the ops center and sprinting down to CAPCOM station. "Switch to the alternate channel". "No joy, it's on that freq too!", said the CAPCOM. "Russian? It sounds Slavic...".

I jumped in, from my post by the window, "Not Russian. I speak it. This sounds like Hebrew, maybe." "It's Greek!", shouted Technical Sergeant Melanie Costa, my Security Forces NCOIC. I gave her a look and she expanded, "I took Classical Greek in High School. I'm real rusty, but that guy just said "Adelphi", which means "Brothers". He's speaking some weird dialect, but it's definitely some form of Greek".

The Flight Director turned to us, "So the Greeks are jamming my comm network?". "Unlikely, Sir", Costa shook her head, "That's not Demotica, the modern Greek dialect. It's Greek, but not the kind spoken in Greece. It's more like Homeric or Archaic...I don't know who  
would speak it, Sir"

At that point, one of the NASA interns ran in and told the FD, "It's coming in over the FM bands, too, Sir. Running over the top of commercial stations". The hotline phone at the rear of the LCC rang and the FD walked over to answer it. Muttering into it for a few seconds, he replaced the handset and turned to us. "Houston says they are getting it. Vandenberg and Rota, too. Everything else is being washed out. AM, FM, CB, even DoD channels and cell phones".

"So everyone in the Western Hemisphere is getting this, like it or not?", I asked. The FD nodded, "It gets worse. Vandenberg started tracking Dream Chaser, on the X-Band radar, when we lost voice comms. They've got company".

Silence in the LCC

"Company?", asked the Range Safety Officer. "A bogey has taken up position a couple of klicks behind the Dream Chaser and is matching course and speed". I let out a whistle, "That's a pretty piece of flying!". "More than you think", the FD said, "The bogey is slowing to match Dream Chaser...without maneuvering". "That's not possible!", the FiDO (Flight Dynamics Officer) interjected, "If it's shadowing Dream Chaser, it has to be making the same S-turns!". "Vandenberg says it's adjusting speed and heading to match Dream Chaser with no aerobraking maneuvers". "Nothing, anywhere, ever, has the capability to break from orbital and reenter under positive thrust!".

The room went into Nerd Rage as the Rationalists and Flat Earth Society warred with the Trekkies and UFO Cultists. The second I heard the words "Close Encounter", I exited the room LCC with my entourage in tow. Contacting Patrick AFB, where my Wing CO made his home, seemed to be a prudent step. I detailed a runner to carry messages to the SF and Fire unit leaders, telling them to take position along and around the airfield, as we still had a spacecraft coming in, tag along or not.

Walking down the corridor to the office we had appropriated for our Command Post, I dialed the Wing HQ. "Mahler here. Put me through to the Colonel, immediately." A minute later, I walked out into the LCC, with instructions to secure KSC, assume operational control of the NASA security personnel, and to "develop the situation" (read: use your common sense, don't fuck up, and keep us posted).

I squeezed my way through the thronging geeks, over to the FD. "Flight, this is now a National Security Incident. I'm locking down this complex. No ingress, no egress. Jacksonville and Tyndall are scrambling fighters, ETA 20 minutes. How far out is our bird and their buddy?". The FD nodded and told me "30 minutes to touchdown. Our bogie is still following Dream Chaser down on a constant bearing, altering their airspeed to match that of DS as they go through their S-turns. Seriously, this thing is ignoring a massive amount of atmospheric friction. Any vehicle in the books or on the drawing board would have disintegrated in minutes...we should be able to get eyes on as they pass over Texas. We've got the camera birds up, as usual."  
"Good to go", I said, noting the SF troops taking up position on the doors.

::Meatshield::

"...repeat: This is Colonial Fleet Raptor 420, Callsign Meatshield, to any recieving unit in the sound of my voice! I am declaring an emergency and following your spacecraft to a landing zone. I have no hostile intent and bring greetings from your brothers of the Twelve Colonies." Ouch! That sounded lame even before it left my lips. This wasn't exactly how any of us had envisioned our first meeting with our lost kinfolk. The Old Man should be addressing them from the CIC, not me babbling like some hick from Aerilon, while trying to follow a maneuvering spacecraft through reentry without rear-ending them.

Maintaining my (hopefully friendly-sounding) yammering, I noted that we were passing over the south-central portion of the continent. I also noted the truly alarming number of target aquisition and fire control DRADIS emitters currently locking me up, as well as several groups of fast movers in the lower atmosphere shadowing us along our reentry path. "Looks like someone's listening". Which stands to reason, as the Raptor comm transmitter was designed to cut through enemy jamming and communicate with its Battlestar over several light-minutes.

Observing the ballistic glidepath of my guide, I guessed that the landing zone was somewhere in the south-eastern coastal region. We'd be over it in about 10 minutes. As my little buddy landed, I'd pick an empty part of the field and touch down. After that, well...I'd continue to wing it...

::Mahler::

We'd gotten a decent image of the bogey off of the camera planes...and the tension ratcheted upward. The spacecraft following  
the Dream Chaser was unlike any vehicle on any drawing board, anywhere. It made me think of a UH-60, only with no rotors or tail section and two giant Tumansky-type engines. Most importantly, it's shape and wing size were incapable of providing any real aerodynamic lift, which meant it had some form of mechanism to provide lift while the main engines generated thrust.

Now a whole pack of the NASA honchos, and my own chain of command, were starting to talk about "Extraterrestrials" (speaking _Greek_?), only without saying the actual word. Someone must be taking the scifi talk seriously, because NASA had Ospreys headed for Gainesville to shanghai the UF Classics and Languages departments, and their in-house Exobiology people were inbound from JSC at Mach One.

Unfortunately, one of the NASA geeks had decided that the entire Human Race had a "right to know", or some such damned thing, and had spread the gospel via mass texting. The FBI and NSA would no doubt initiate an Inquisition. In the meantime, news crews were stacking up like zombies outside the main fenceline, with a clear view of the flightline. Between them and the thousands of civilians already present for the landing (plus the hordes on the highway enroute, now that the news had hit the networks), I had nothing like enough SF troops to clear them back the several kilometers that would be required to prevent close observation of the day's festivities.

We'd made what preperations we could, throwing SF teams out into a perimeter around the landing complex, staging the Fire & Rescue teams on the apron, and deploying the MPADS team (in case our Greeky friend was feeling grouchy, or someone suffered Sudden Jihad Syndrome). Cape Canaveral AFB was moving personnel over the fence to reinforce us, and Patrick was sending the bulk of the SF Squadron and the rest of the Pararescue kids.

The LCC relayed an update that DreamChaser and our guest were 5 minutes out, and the F-22s from Tyndall had moved in as chase planes and escort. They now had close eyes on the guest, who was humanoid, in a space suit and was making "Hi There!" guestures.

::Meatshield::

Judging from the local spacecraft's altitude and AOA, the landing field must be close now.  
A couple of minutes ago, a half dozen aircraft had pulled into formation with us. They were a blotchy grey, with acutely-angled edges to their airframes, and Viper-like bubble canopies. More attention-getting, they were packing obvious missile loads on underwing pylons. One of them had pulled alongside and the pilot had removed her mask and waved. I waved back, plastering on my best "I'm cute and  
harmless, don't shoot me!" smile.

They didn't seem to mind me following their spacecraft, so I guessed they had figured out my intentions. Which was good , as I had no intention of surviving years of running from the Cylons, only to be blown away by my distant relatives...all because I didn't know the secret handshake our ancestors forgot to pass on.

The spacecraft entered it's final glide-approach, deploying braking flaps and increasing it's AOA. The landing field came into view, situated immediately on the shoreline. Surrounding the installation was a mass of humanity, likely several times the population of the entire Fleet. Several rotary-wing aircraft circled the field, staying clear of the landing strip itself. A couple had color schemes of blue and white, with the rest colored a dark green that screamed "military".

While the local spacecraft made it's landing on a runway, my Raptor could land on any level space. Breaking formation with the locals, I transitioned into Hover/Landing mode, and selected a point over beside a huge hangar to touchdown.

Traversing across the installation at 10m/s, I took up position and leveled out over my landing point, gently lowering the Raptor as the rangefinder in the front skid gave a countdown of the distance to the surface.

30 seconds later, the Raptor was down and clear. Turning my attention to the main console, I ran through my postflight checklist and switched off the engines and electronics. Time to face the future.

* * *

Notes:

Goes Hard AU during "Exodus, Part II". _Pegasus_' FTL stays online during the battle over New Caprica, and she manages to jump away with the _Galactica_.

Niko ("Meatshield") is an OC, another of the nameless pilots. We'll have a "getting to know him" infodump at a later point in the story.

The Torus is a MacGuffin, so don't expect any revelations about it until wayyy on down the line.

::Name:: indicates the POV Character for the following section of text. This is my first shot at First Person narrative, so bear with me.


	2. Chapter 2

::Meatshield::

Glancing out of the cockpit, I saw a line of ground vehicles pulling up about a hundred meters away, with dozens of what looked a whole lot like soldiers piling out. Comfortingly, most had their weapons slung, and those who didn't were not pointing them in my direction, seemingly more concerned with the people outside the fence.

One vehicle disgorged two men in, obviously military, blue uniforms, and two men in clothing not unlike what Colonial civilians would wear. Judging by the way the soldiers acted towards them (saluting, then moving off with a purpose), this looked like the on-site leadership.

Clambering out of the cockpit, I stood up in the personnel bay. Adjusting my flightsuit, I took my sidearm out of the holster, emptied the chamber, removed the magazine and placed both on the ECO console. No sense spooking anyone outside, and I didn't plan on shooting my way out of any difficulties.

Taking a deep breath, wishing the whole situation on Showboat instead of me, I reached for the hatch control.

::Mahler::

Our JLTV pulled into the ring of vehicles formed up around the now-parked spacecraft. Up close, it resembled a hybrid of an F-111 and a Mi-35 Hind. The two NASA geeks with me (Drs. Stewart and Peacock) murmured techtalk to one another, pointing at various parts of the vehicle.

My aide-for-the-day, 2LT Masterson, booted open the door and we dismounted the vehicle. I walked over to where Tech Sergeant Costa had set up her CP, the NASA guys and Masterson in tow. Returning her salute, I said, "Give me a SITREP".

She nodded, "Sir, we have everything inside the fenceline under positive control, and have a double perimeter around the...ah, vehicle. NASA Security and the Rescue guys have the airspace cleared, but we can't do anything about the Press drone cams or the guys with the wide-angle lenses. The Cape isn't exactly Nellis..."

I grimaced, in way of agreement. We were under direct observation by about a hundred thousand people (Titusville having apparently emptied out), many of whom were experienced Cape Watchers and possessed powerful optics. That didn't even count the Golden Horde of news crews, with their own gear including airborne audio/video drones, currently blasting our images onto the 24hr news nets.

NASA had their own news crew immortalizing us as we stood there, watching the pilot move about in the cockpit. He moved out of the canopy, into the rear of the spacecraft. A minute or so later, a gull-wing hatch on the side of the vehicle opened and our guest stepped out onto the ramp formed by the flared lower airframe.

The pilot was dressed in a green and tan spacesuit of some rubbery/vinyl material, with a holster (empty!) on his belt. His head was enclosed in a helmet with a wide transparent faceplate. From what was visible, his face was normal, with two eyes, etc.

Reaching up, the pilot undid some form of clasps, opened his faceplate, removed his helmet and placed it under his arm. He then hopped down onto the concrete of the parking lot. "One small step...", Masterson said under his breath, to grins from Costa and the NASA guys.

Guessing that was my cue to enter the history books (hopefully not as a negative example), I gestured to my retinue to follow me, then started off towards the visitor at an easy pace.

As we came within a few meters of the pilot, I noted his appearance. He was young, barely out of his teens, if my guess was right. Despite his slightly fixed smile (obviously trying to project a pleasant demeanor, as you do in awkward social situations, like First Contact with people on another world...), his eyes were hard. Military, then. I'd seen the same hardness in the eyes of the kids who had three tours in Afghanistan under their belt.

I came to a halt a couple of paces from him. Bracing to an obvious position of Attention, he rendered a salute almost identical to those I recieved a few minutes ago from our own troops. Guess some things are universal. Supressing a smirk, I returned the salute as sharply as I could (not being a Drill Team Fairy).

Dropping his salute, our visitor spoke...I didn't understand any of it, except when he indicated his name by slapping his chest as he slowly said "Nikoteros Adelanii". The rest of it was a mess of liquid syllables. Finishing his address, he stared at us expectantly.

Costa stepped up to my shoulder. "Sir, I caught a couple of I'm pretty sure I recognize. Something about "brothers", numbers 12 and 13, and I think he asked if this was Earth". Rolling the dice, I told her, "See if you can indicate we wish to be friends...and that, yes, this is Earth". "Yes, sir", she replied.

Concentrating a moment, she spoke a series of halting words, pausing between each. A few seconds before she finished, Adelanii got an awestruck look on his face and began glancing around. Guess this being Earth was good news.

Deciding it was time to do my part, I stepped forward, touched my chest, and said, "Lieutenant Colonel John Mahler, United States Air Force. Welcome to Earth". I held out my hand and he took it. As we shook hands, the distant crowd made a sound halfway between a sign and a cheer.

Holy shit.


	3. Chapter 3

**Act Two**

**Suddenly I turned around and she was standing there  
With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair  
She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns  
"Come in" she said  
"I'll give you shelter from the storm".**  
-Bob Dylan, "Shelter From the Storm"

::Meatshield::

Earth! The home of the 13th Tribe! And here I was, on frakking Earth(!), shaking hands with one of the Cousins.

The woman who had spoken to "Mahler", whose hand I was shaking, had replied to my "Greetings, etc" spiel in a halting a slurred form of archaic Colonial Standard. Words to the effect that I was welcome here and emphatic confirmation that yes, indeed, without a doubt...this was Earth.

Mahler introduced the other four members of his welcoming party. The woman with the language skill was named "Costa", the other uniformed man was called "Masterson". The two in civilian clothing were "Stewart" and "Peacock". Handshakes all around.

The scorching sun and high humidity (seriously, it was like the jungles of Scorpia) had me boiling in the flightsuit, and my hosts seemed to pick up on that due to my profuse sweating. They indicated that we could move the whole show indoors, pointing at the huge hangar behind them. Nodding, I stepped off toward the hangar, and we proceeded across the hardtop.

::Mahler::

My job now, as I understood it, was to keep our new playmate, Adelanii, safe and comfortable, then stall for time while NASA (and, allegedly, the State Department) threw together a team to communicate with him.

We entered the VAB (currently empty), with a noticeable drop in temperature (Adelanii was obviously not dressed for Florida in July). I requisitioned the manager's office suite to house our party, sending one of the SFs off to fetch some water.

Motioning our guest to make himself comfortable on one of the 1980's vintage couches, we watched as he unzipped his flightsuit, sliding out of the top half and tying it around his waist. Taking a seat and placing his helmet on the next cushion, he glanced around, clearly at a loss as how to proceed. That made two of us.

::Meatshield::

Well, frak. What now? I had now idea how to handle things from here on. Except for the Old Man, and maybe Roslin, I don't think anyone had thought about what we'd do when we actually got to Earth! Given the language barrier, how do I communicate the Fleet's situation, where we're from, why we're looking for Earth, the Cylons...

One of Mahler's subordinates entered and passed around bottles of water. Unscrewing the top (some things are universal, I guess), I took a deep pull. Odd how my last drink was on a Battlestar, in some other part of the Galaxy...

I wished Frosty could be here. Could see Earth. She always believed in the road to Earth, even when a lot of us had given up. Starbuck would be pretty good, too. She'd probably figure out some crazy way to get the 13th Tribe to help us. Me? I was not that confident.

The female soldier, Costa, who knew a few words of broken Colonial, was a possibility, but I couldn't risk screwing up and a mistranslation turning some simple phrase into a mortal insult or hostile declaration. Writing, on the other hand...

Looking up at Mahler, I mimed a writing motion with my hands. Catching my meaning, he nodded and ransacked the desks in the room behind the glass partition, producing several pads of paper and two ink pens. Handing them to me, he took a seat across the room.

Thinking for a minute, I decided that, if the 13th had people who could understand Archaic Colonial, then it was likely they could understand our writing. Wincing at the glaring right angles of the paper, I leaned over one of the pads and began to write out our story (short form).

::Mahler::

Outstanding! Our new friend evidently thought that things would go easier if he wrote things down, instead of the two of us trying to pantomime concepts via Costa's (admittedly) limited grasp of his language. NASA staff had told us the Ospreys transporting the UF language guys had touched down, and we'd be setting them up in the main work floor of the VAB. In a few minutes, we'd go in there and they'd try to kluge together a basis for real communication. I figured they'd appreciate a lengthy sample of the written form.

More ominously, orders had come down from the Office of The President. Based on howling from the NASA Biology types and their counterparts at CDC and USAMRIID, everyone who was in the VAB was now under quarantine. The rest of the personnel were confined to the Cape. The words "Virgin Field Epidemic" were used. Having read enough scifi to know what that meant, I could understand the motivation. I just hoped Adelanii wasn't carrying Space Rabies.

On the lounge television, currently muted, FoxNews was showing enhanced video of Adelanii emerging from his spacecraft, meeting us, and shaking my hand, with the headline: "First Contact". "Well, sir, you're in the books with Yuri and Neil now", Costa snarked. One particular shot had the VAB parking lot's Stars and Stripes fluttering in the background behind Adelanii and I as we shook hands. Costa laughed, "Get used to that picture, Boss. Fox'll be using it as their lead in for the next decade!".

Costa wasn't laughing a few seconds later, when the clip showed her shaking Adelanii's hand, after Peacock and Stewart. "Are they zooming in on my ass? Fuckers!". There is justice, after all.

Adelanii had filled up two pages with squiggly greekish letters, looking like a prose version of my Mechanics notes in College. He handed the pad to Stewart, who had been circling him like a hawk, looking over his shoulder as he wrote. "Stewart, take that to the UF language geeks. Let 'em get a head start". Nodding, he stepped out onto the floor and walked over to the tables where the Linguists and Classics guys were setting up.

Stewart dropping two pages of text, handwritten by a man from another world, instantly caused a nerd flocking event, as about 3 dozen PhDs tried to look at them simultaneously. I turned away from the lounge window. We'd give them a few minutes to calm down, then escort our guest over there.

::Mahler::

Taking a second to study Adelanii, as he stared at the television, I noted a few details. 5'8" or so, but with a starved look that spoke of quite a few missed meals in the recent past. Light blonde hair and blue eyes, with a wiry build and extremely pale skin. His flightsuit showed signs of wear and multiple repairs.

Obviously military, but with worn gear and looking malnourished. There were several scenarios to explain that, all of which were pretty forboding.

The nerds out on the VAB floor looked ready to go, so I stowed my woolgathering, gestured to Adelanii and our entourage, then stepped out of the lounge. The language team was seated at several long bench tables, with a seperate table and chair for our guest, along with pads of paper, pens and bottled water for everyone. Several other tables were set up for both my little company and the linguist's assistants.

Once everyone was seated, the academics dove right in. They showed Adelanii flashcards with Greek words, and he would speak the word if he recognized it, or shake his head if he didn't.

This went on for about an hour, with the nerds taking copious notes at every response, before the actual Greek scholars tried verbal communications. Adelanii would get the gist of most phrases, apparently. According to the academics, the dialect was descended from Archaic Greek (what they'd have spoken during the Trojan War), but mutated, and with loan words from some germanic-sounding language.

After a couple of hours, I interrupted and closed the session for the day, throwing out the nerds (eager to collate their data) and setting up a hot meal for our friend Adelanii (Niko, to his friends, apparently). With a meal in him, he looked about ready to collapse, so we set him up with a cot in one of the interior offices (complete with shower). He promptly went to sleep, understandably. After setting a couple dozen guards in and around the office block, I went off to the VAB floor (now the "Contact Center") for a summary briefing from both the language team and my SF leaders.

Our celebrity guests for the evening included General Ericson (the Space Command CG), the President and the entire Cabinet, right down to Veterans Affairs, all joining us via video link (quarantine, remember). Someone from the NASA staff had arranged for food, and I grabbed some snacks and coffee, then took my seat.

Addressing the cameras, I opened "Mr. President, Secretaries, General, this is our briefing on the events of the day. This is obviously a definitive moment in the history of our World. That is, however, beyond the purview of the teams on site. Our duties are to secure this facility and to learn about our guest. To this end, I will ask my Security Forces commander to update us on the current situation. Captain Jackson?".

Jackson stood in his trailer Command Post, out by the LCC, and reported the current security situation. Namely, that he had an entire squadron of SFs locking down KSC, with the local cops and State Troopers (with the National Guard on the way) keeping order among the crowd outside, which was growing by the hour.

There was an inner perimeter, thrown up around the VAB, out to about 500 meters. Inside the LCC offices, where our guest was resting, it was standing room only, packed with SF troops, both static guards and roving patrols.

Jackson requested additional assets including Mechanized support, to harden the complex against heavier events, such as VBIEDs or serious armed incursions. We had a Spaceman crashing on our couch, and the Zanies were liable to come out swinging. The Northern Command CG promised heavy elements from the 3rd Infantry Division would arrive by early afternoon tomorrow. Secret Service personnel were also en route, as they were the SMEs when it came to protecting famous and controversial people.

Jackson, having finished his spiel and having had his concerns addressedm sat down. We then focused on the leader of the language team. Doctor Karl Hahn stood and began his report.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, our visitor, who identifies himself as one Nikoteros Adelanii, speaks a highly variant form of Greek. It shows a definite correlation to Archaic Greek of the Late Bronze Age, but none of the main indicators that are hallmarks of the later forms of Greek. This gives us a good idea of when our civilizations split, and...".

The Secretary of State interrupted, "Wait just a minute, Doctor! Are you saying that his people are from Earth?". "Yes, Mr Secretary, we are saying that. The only alternatives are that the Greek language evolved in parallel in another world, or that _we_ come from another planet!".

The President broke in, "Don't even joke about that, Doctor. Ancient Astronauts are the last thing we need in this mix. Continue, please".

Hahn nodded, "Yes, sir. Given the similarities of the dialect to such a well-understood and documented language, we are confident we can establish full communication in a fairly rapid manner. Either by teaching Niko the English language, or by learning his dialect ourselves".

"Today, though, we have managed to put together a preliminary translation of the document Niko produced and handed to Lt. Colonel Mahler. The alphabet is standard Greek, with only a few graphical mutations". Hahn paused and lifted a printout, reading from it.

"He is an Officer, some form of junior military leader...the rank is uncertain, in an organization he refers to as the "Colonial Fleet". He comes from the "Twelve Colonies of Kobol". He was seperated from his Fleet in an accident in space, arriving here".

The Doctor looked at the cameras. "Now the ominous items. Our guest seems to describe the destruction of all Twelve Colonies, along with the population, by mechanical lifeforms called Khylons or Cylons". "Here we go..." sighed the Secretary of Defense, leaning back in his chair. Hahn nodded. "Yes, sir. If we have the translation right, and there are a few terms that do not have known cognates, Niko was part of a group of survivors who escaped along with the last two warships. Several dozen ships, carrying less than 50,000 people. Apparently, they had some knowledge of Earth's existence, the details aren't clear as to how, and they immediately began looking for refuge here. In relation to this, Niko refers to us as the "Thirteenth Tribe", and siblings of the other Twelve".

::Mahler::

The President of the United States wore the expression of a man trying to unobtrusively determine whether or not he was tripping balls on LSD. "OK. Lt. Colonel Mahler will continue as our on-site commander. The Quarantine continues until the CDC says otherwise. NASA personnel will support the visitor-oriented activities, with an eye towards the health and comfort of our guest. Dr Hahn, I want you and your team to teach...Adelanii?..to understand English. Learning his language is your secondary goal. We need him to be able to speak for himself".

Looking my way, he continued, "Mahler, see if you can get him to show off his spacecraft, tomorrow. Other than that, you are to keep him comfortable and safe...while we figure out some kind of standing policy for this...situation. Good job on the First Contact, by the way. Very photogenic moment, that. I'll expect daily updates at 1800hrs. Keep up the good work".

With that, the meeting broke up, and everyone headed for their cots. I issued a few instructions to my subordinates, then hunted down my own cot. I was asleep before my head hit.

::Meatshield::

I woke up to the noise of people moving about in the corridor outside the room they'd given me to crash in last night, after the best meal I'd had since the Fall. After a second of being surprised not to be in my rack on _Galactica_, I swung to the side of the cot and stood up. Walking to the door, I opened it and look out.

Instant silence. Looking up and down the hallway, I was confronted by an even dozen armed men and women staring right back at me. One of the females, with more stripes on her arm than the others, rattled out instructions to the others. She mentioned "Mahler", my playmate from yesterday. Two troops dashed off, and I took a seat in the corridor.

After a few minutes, Mahler and one of their language guys walked in. Mahler came up, greeted me, and handed over a bundle of clothing, indicating the shower stall in the room. I guess I was pretty ripe, having worn the flightsuit and tanks since I left _Galactica_.

Demonstrating the shower mechanism, Mahler went outside and I took a rinse and changed into the comfortable clothing provided.

Emerging back into the corridor, I got a nod from Mahler, who gestured to the language guy, Hahn. "We desire(want?) to learn you the speech (of) ours", he stated, in very broken Colonial. I nodded, eagerly. At least one of us has a plan...

"Commander of One Thousand Mahler asks to see your chariot(?)". They need a better dictionary. "Raptor", I said, nodding. "Raptor?", Mahler repeated, gesturing in the general direction of the spacecraft, visible outside. I nodded, and made to lead him out to it, but he stopped us and Hahn said "Morning meal". I wasn't going to argue, that's for damned sure.

::Mahler::

ET likes pancakes. There's your fact for the day. With butter, evidently the syrup was too sweet.

3 plates later, we walked out to the parking lot where the "Raptor" (the F-22 mafia will be raging) was ringed with guards.

Moments after we stepped into view, a cheer went up from our legions of loyal fans out beyond the fenceline, who were staring at us through a variety of high-power optics. The local Fox affiliate had even provided a hookup into a Jumbotron screen, for those without a clear line of sight.

The 24hr news cycle had thoroughly exhausted all relevant data, sometime in the wee hours. My complete biography, to include old girlfriends and my Rocket Propulsion instructor from UAH, was now a matter of public record, as were those of my four cohorts in yesterday's greeting party. General Ericson had let slip that the SECAF was working on making me a full-bird Colonel, that being the traditional Air Force attaboy for major Space achievements. Which apparently included being in the right place at the right time.

Niko hopped up on the Raptor's ramp, undogged the hatch, opened it up and gestured for me to follow. Stepping from the concrete up onto the ramp, I entered a spacecraft built under another sun.

The interior resembled a cross between a PAVE LOW and a B-52, with two seats and control setups up front in a cockpit, along with some form of C4I/ELINT/Whatever station in a passenger bay to the rear. The cockpit was fronted by a large bubble canopy.

Much like Niko's (have to figure out his rank equivalent...) uniform and flightsuit, the spacecraft had significant wear marks. Scuffs, worn deck panels, patched holes, obvious weld marks, etc.

Joining my host upfront, I accepted his invitation to sit in the lefthand (copilot) position. The spacecraft controls were (to my surprise) obvious...Power, Pitch, Yaw, Roll. The electronics, of course, were a mystery. There were several screens that resembled MultiFunction Displays, along with analogue instruments, some of which were indecipherable. Possibly due to being related to spacecraft navigation.

On the console in front of the pilot's station, several photographs (with their corners clipped off) were taped into position around the instruments.  
One of them showed Niko embracing a young woman with short dark hair, both of them in some form of blue service uniform. Another photo had a dozen young men and women, Niko among them, posed in a lineup in front of a Raptor and a spacecraft with a red-and-white paint scheme that had to be a fighter. A third picture showed a grainy image of a man in some form of black combat dress, on his knees with a rifle at his side...and an identifiable mushroom cloud looming over him. A cityscape burned in the background.

Giving Niko a questioning look, I pointed at the picture with the brunette. He saw where I was pointing, gave me a sad look, and said "Iris" while touching his heart. Ah, a wife or lover. I nodded sympathetically.

Indicating the group photo, he said "Raptors", pointing to the pilot seat and himself. Squadron photo, I guess. The ominous picture got an angry frown. "Aerilon". Pointing to the mushroom cloud, he said "Cylons". Not really knowing how to respond, I gave my best "serious nod".

Starting up many of the electronics, he appeared to check them over. Possibly a diagnostic checklist. He tapped on one analogue gauge, in particular, several times before looking thoughtful and switching all the systems off.

Nodding to me (this language barrier is for the fucking birds!), he moved into the rear of the spacecraft, rummaging around in the lockers. Grabbing a small toolbox, he left the spacecraft, motioning me to follow.

Hopping down, he walked to the rear of the Raptor, accessing a hatch in the lower rear of the fuselage. Taking a small wrench from his toolkit, he removed a plate from the cavity inside the hatch. Replacing the wrench, he pulled out a bulb-pump and a length of transparent hose, which he fed into the cavity.

Turning to me, he pantomimed a container for a liquid. I sent a minion to fetch one, and we sat on the Raptor's personnel ramp.

After a few minutes, a graduated beaker was produced. Niko took it and, using the handpump, extracted a half-liter of viscous golden-brown fluid from the Raptor. "Tylium", he said, indicating the fluid. Handing the beaker to me, he mimed a giant explosion. After he handed it to me...Great. Must be the fuel used by the Raptor.

Calling one of the SFs, I told him to go fetch a NASA rocket geek. Nodding toward the VAB, I led Niko back inside (holding that fucking beaker very, very steady). Reaching the "Interview Area", where the language team waited to do their thing, I set the Beaker of Doom carefully down onto one of the tables.

Summoned by my call for geeks, Peacock and several white shirt & calculator types rolled up. "Morning, Colonel. What's up?". Pointing at the Beaker, I said, "Stuff in the jar is called Tylium. Niko says it's extremely explosive. The Raptor runs on it, and he got a little for you guys to play with. Get it the hell out of here". That got their attention. They trooped out with their prize like the Levites with the Ark.

The Greek Inquisition sat down for the pre-lunch interview, looking at us expectantly...

* * *

To be fair to RDM, I can keep Pegasus around because I don't have to pay for the upkeep of the Set.

We'll shortly have some "XY days later..." timejumps, just to keep the plot moving.

Originally, I was going to use Starbuck, as this started off as a "the other way it could have gone" version of ICE PALACE, my other (much slower-going) fic...with a public First Contact instead of the hushed-up affair of ICE PALACE, but it was a little too close to already ongoing fics (like _The Long Road Home_, by Uberscribbler...which is awesome, by the way). This led to the OC "average joe" character of Niko/Meatshield.


	4. Chapter 4

::Meatshield::

36 hours after I first set foot on Earth, I was enjoying some local dish that had absolutely no identifiable relation to shipboard rations (the "stressed vegetable protein" that the food processors produced out of any nontoxic plant matter). They'd kept me pretty busy all day, between showing off the Raptor, helping them master the intricacies of Colonial, and me being taught Anglish, the local tongue. "Yes", "No", "What is...?", "How do you say...?", etc. A fairly simple language, really, compared to my native Piconese (and our seven declensions).

They'd thoughtfully provided me with writing supplies and notecards. I'd taken a few minutes and made a couple dozen flashcards, like back in Primary School, with the most important words of the day.

Back in my (spacious but spartan) quarters, I sat down on the couch and set a writing pad on the low table in front of me. I had to brainstorm a plan for how I was going to brief the 13th Tribe, once we broke the language barrier, on the situation. Followed by how I could help bootstrap them into some kind of shape to capable of taking on the Cylons.

Having the Raptor was a gift from the Gods, given the FTL, full tanks of Tylium and the spectrographic suite to locate Tylium ore. Even if they had to paint by numbers, the 13th (What the Hell do I _call_ these people? The Earthtribe?) should be able to duplicate the spacecraft systems, and kluge together a Viper analogue. They had a decent aerospace industry, if their spacplane and the fighters I saw yesterday were any indicator.

Hopefully, we could make some speedy progress on the language front, and then I could speak directly to their leadership. In the meantime, there were a couple of ways I could prod them along. The "Aerilon Capitol Rooftop" photo seemed to get _Chiliarch_ Mahler's (John was his given name) attention in a hurry. Perhaps I could get him to pass a copy up his chain of command.

So, basically, I had to help the Earthtribe (we'll go with that) jump their technological base by, oh, about 50 years or so, prep them for a war with the Cylons, and see if they'd be so kind as to help me find the Fleet. Simple.

Frak me.

-  
**Time Passes**

::Mahler::

Events began to move very quickly at that point. After the ad hoc scramble, we got our feet under us and set up a real operation. Niko (Lieutenant Adelanii, CF, we finally determined) was installed in the Astronaut Beach House...which was then surrounded by a Security Forces Squadron and a Tank Platoon...with the Coast Guard and Air National Guard enforcing a no-fly, no-sail zone overhead and offshore.

Over the next 3 weeks, the Language Team figured out the grammar of "Colonial" (as it was called), and documented a large vocabulary of words and terms not found in Archaic Greek. Naturally, this was all dumped (after some editing) onto the 'Net, to satisfy the planetwide hunger for info regarding our buddy.

Niko, for his part, had mastered a limited range of English, allowing him to communicate on day to day matters. On occasion, he would become exasperated by the constant prodding of the Language Team, and suddenly shift to another language (which had a bit of a Germanic sound to it), driving them nuts until they caught on and stopped badgering him about Vocative and Genitive cases.

The "72 Hours Into The Crisis" Presidential Address to the Nation (and the World) was rivetting, with most of the Babysitting Team (as we were called) watching it after Niko crashed for the evening.

The President had, after that first night's briefing, suspended trading on the Markets and called Congress into emergency session, to which he invited the leaders of the G10 and the NATO alliance. All the Players assembled in the Capitol, on the third night after the Landing.

Without preamble, the President laid out the facts as we knew them at that point. An Extraterrestrial had landed at the Kennedy Space Center. The ET was biologically Human, and distantly related by culture, speaking a language descended from Archaic Greek (the Greek President was unable to stop grinning after that one). Based on this, basic communications had been established, and it had been determined that that LT Adelanii came in peace. However, he was part of a group of refugees escaping the genocide of their race by an enemy they called "Cylons". They were searching for Earth, specifically, based on historical records they possessed. Having been seperated from the refugee Fleet, LT Adelanii had reemerged from FTL travel (nature unclear) in LEO, and followed a NASA vehicle down to the Cape.

That said, the President continued to the effect that the United States had no intention of restricting access to the visitor, and that the other major Powers of Earth were welcome to participate in learning about our guest. America was acting as his host and protector, not a jailor.

_Moreover, LT Adelanii had, without any prompting, emphatically indicated his willingness to share the technology of his civilization with the People of Earth._

Lastly, as soon as reliable communications were in place, LT Adelanii was more than welcome to speak for himself, and the United States would arrange the logistics.

After that, we settled into what would become our routine for the next few months. The main addition to our little family was the large "Allied" contingent, with scientific and military personnel from NATO and the G10. They pretty much kept out of the way, not wanting to upset the currently-functioning applecart. The Greeks had sent a political/legal attache along with their other people, to ensure Niko wasn't taken advantage of, as he was a megacelebrity to the Greeks (who just will not shut up about Greek being the Galactic lingua franca).

We'd moved the Raptor into the VAB, to protect it from both the environment and sticky fingers. The Tylium fuel sample had driven the chemical world nuts, with its ludicrously high enthalpy and energy density. It was possible to synthesize it, and DoE was converting one of the Oak Ridge plants to do so, but Niko had said that it was primarily found in an ore form on asteroids and moons. Given the energy input required to form the compound artificially, we'd probably go prospect sooner, rather than later.

Pretty much every component of the Raptor was being subjected to non-destructive testing, to determine it's material composition (only Niko was allowed to attach or detach anything to or from the spacecraft), and the whole vehicle, from the bolts up, was being documented. Lockheed, Boeing, Mikoyan and BAe all had engineers going over the documentation with a fine-toothed comb. The countegravity system that enabled atmospheric flight (and provided some artificial gravity, when in spaceflight) was way too sophisticated to pass the theory through the still present language barrier, so the idea was that the components and configuration would be copied 1:1. Niko had managed to communicate that the countergravity systems would scale up dependably.

Of Niko himself, a lot had been learned in the last couple of months. He was just over 21 years old (based on conversion from Colonial standard years), born in Queenstown, the capital city of Picon, one of the twelve(!) planets of the Colonies. He was the youngest son of a large military family (with some indication that they were actually military-aristocrats, like Prussian Junkers), of whom he was almost certainly the sole survivor. He had a military education (some form of Secondary School version of Sandhurst), but for some reason was not in the Colonial military, himself. He was travelling between worlds when the Cylons began their offensive.

After the survivors assembled and fled under escort by an older warship (a "Battlestar", evidently a Cruiser/Carrier hybrid), the _Galactica_, he had worked maintenance (of Propulsion systems, which was a godsend) on one of the civilian ships in the Fleet. After a short time, combat losses and some sort of accident forced the Military to run a dragnet through the civilians for potential pilots. Niko was picked up (both for his military training and flight experience, and something to do with his family, though the details didn't come through) and selected to pilot Raptors, which apparently formed a "second string" to the more glamorous Vipers (sort of like B-2 pilots and F-22 jocks here).

Apparently, there was a series of running battles, as the Fleet was forced to forage for water and fuel. They located a planet called "Kobol", which was the world the Twelve (sometimes Niko said Thirteen) Colonies came from before they colonized the twelve worlds. After some form of internal (religious?) dispute, they located a map indicating the general location of Earth.

After setting out from Kobol, they linked up with a second surviving Battlestar, the _Pegasus_. There was another internal dispute, ending with the assassination of the _Pegasus_' CO. By a Cylon infiltration model (I've seen this movie...), according to Niko, but it was obvious that there was more to it.

At that point, they attempted a long range rescue op, to extract surviving resistance personnel from Caprica (another of the Colonies). It succeeded, but they also located a habitable planet inside a nebula. Hoping to hide from the Cylons, they decided to settle the planet, naming it (unimaginitively) "New Caprica". A year later, the Cylons found and occupied New Caprica.

The military contingent had escaped, then returned a few months later and stormed the planet. This allowed the civilians to make their escape, but both Battlestars suffered heavy damage.

A few months after that, the Fleet jumped into a planetary system and detected some form of artificial object in orbit around and uninhabited planet. Niko was sent to investigate. The artifact trapped him, he attempted to FTL jump out...and ended up here.

The joint FBI/CIA team that (unknown to Niko) debriefed, on a weekly basis, everyone authorized to interact with Niko, had picked up on a few anomalies in his behaviour.

For one, he seemed to periodically make oblique references to Earth, the Colonial religion and the Thirteenth Colony (us), in relation to one another. Evidently, we weren't giving the right responses, because he would change the subject immediately. The FBI specialists thought he was trying to sound us out about something, but that we should just let him run with it and not press him. Whatever it was, it was likely important and we'd get more out of him if he was allowed to spill it on his own terms.

He was also seriously evasive on the subject of his family. Which was ironically quite beneficial, as we found out a lot of information about Colonial society due to Niko throwing out a red herring about his schooling on Picon, or the structure of the Colonial Fleet, when directly asked about his parents or siblings. All we managed to get was that his Mother was a high-ranking CF officer, and he had several brothers and sisters, all of whom were military (and thus, very likely KIA). He was, on the other hand, quite willing to talk about his Wife, Iris (often referred to with another term that translated to "Frost", probably a Call Sign or nickname), who was a fellow pilot, although she flew a Viper, and also from Picon. He obviously missed her and his friends, and was quite concerned for them.

Another item of concern was his psychological state. His civilization essentially exterminated while he was in his late teens. Fed into the meatgrinder as a conscript combat pilot. Seperated from his spouse and comrades by a freak mishap, with no way to get back. Stranded among strangers who talked funny. Yeah, he could have developed an issue or two.

All in all, though, Niko seemed to be be doing OK. Regular feeding and sun had cured the starved look and pallor that he'd had when he landed, and he was a hit with the ladies. The first images of him to be released to the public, a week or so after the Landing, rapidly evolved into several hundred thousand fansites, most dedicated to all things Niko or Colonial. Global phenomenon, overnight. Go figure.

Completely oblivious to all this, Niko continued slaving away learning our language, teaching us his, and helping the engineers learn about the Raptor without screwing it up. Bowing to popular demand, the President had promised to arrange for Niko to speak to the UN General Assembly (bleh) and the Congress, as soon as we had sufficient proficiency in Colonial to provided accurate running translations.

In the meantime, a translation of the first text Niko had written, that first day, had been released to the public. As had the "Fall of Aerilon" picture. Good year for the Defense budget...

::Meatshield::

These people have no idea who they are! They've no knowledge of Kobol, their status as the Thirteenth Tribe, and had never even heard of the other Twelve Tribes until I arrived. How any of that is even possible is beyond me. Could there have been some disaster that essentially reset their entire civilization? That would be the most logical explanation, as the idea that an advanced society would chuck all their technology to become stone-carving primitives is ludicrous.

Regardless, they are the last of the Tribes to have their own world. Possibly the last of the Tribes to actually be viable, given the numbers left in the Fleet (11,321 Piconese, last I checked). The Cylons were coming. The Fleet needed to be found. That means helping the Earthtribe build Raptors, Vipers and ships. While they didn't have the advantages the Colonies had enjoyed in the early days, namely the presence of the Galleon hulk drifting inside the Caprica-Gemenon orbit and the bits and pieces rescued from Kobol, all the basic elements were available. Absent the spaceflight technologies and fusion power, they were only one or two decades behind us.

They'd asked if I'd be willing to speak to their governing bodies, once they'd gotten a sufficient handle on Colonial (my Anglish was still very much at the broken stage, so they'd have to do the translating). I'd be ready, as it seemed the best opportunity to make sure they got with the program. I'm no Adama, but you don't grow up in a Picon _strategoi_ clan without mastering the art of public motivation (aka, "Rhetoric").

It was understood that I'd first meet with the President of my host nation, the United States (who dominated this continent, and seemed to exercise at least some military or economic hegemony over much of the rest of the planet), at his palace in the capital to the north. Since he seemed to be the man with the connections to get me where I needed to be, I'd be more than happy to hang out with him.

One major concern was the splintered nature of the political landscape. John had explained the situation. Over 150 completely sovereign nation-states, with only a few of the richest coordinated in any real alliance. Lik pre-Exodus Kobol, only a dozen times more complex.

Ironically, the Earthtribe was as fiesty as any of us could have hoped for. Frak, these people loved to fight. Even by Picon standards (and we set the bar pretty high), they've racked up an awesome list of wars and military achievements. There were more professional military personnel on Earth than there were in the entire Colonial Fleet, even at the height of the Cylon War...and this was peacetime!

The house they'd billeted me in was awesomely comfortable. Especially compared with my rack in the bunkroom on _Galactica_. The view out onto the (Atlantic) Ocean was amazing, even with the big grey hulls of my oceangoing security in the way.

The food was also unbelieveable. After three years of goop processed by military bioreactors, I wasn't up for anything very rich, but the chance to stuff my face with all the delicious plants and animals of Earth was too good to pass up.

-  
**Time Passes**

::Mahler::

Seven months, to the day, after he landed, Niko went to Washington. After a few final checks, He and the Language Team were confident enough in one another to risk attempting a running translation in the field. The President wanted his photo op, Niko wanted us to get our asses in gear and start making starfighters, and everyone wanted to hear the story from the horse's mouth. So north we went, into a situation that looked like DC had been invaded.

The CG of the Military District of Washington (MDW) had effectively taken over as Mayor for the time being, with 30,000 troops investing the city. Both to keep order and to secure the areas that would host the high-powered meetings that would change life as we knew it. No protesting. No "Free Speech Zones". Problem children (or professional protestors) would be dealt with harshly.

We came in to Andrews AFB on a C-17. Niko, myself and my staff, a few SFs to mind us, and the Language Team...er, team that would do the translating for Niko. Andrews itself was under complete lockdown, with their SF Squadron on high alert.

A few weeks ago, it had been noted, with some alarm, that Niko had absolutely nothing to wear to DC, much less the White House or Congress. He'd been running about in ABUs or sweats since he got here. Naturally, the British liason officer had picked up on it, without telling anyone else, and had quizzed Niko about what the CF wore as a Dress Uniform. He then went and had several sets made to order, at one of those tailors that provides the Guards-types all their couture. Niko, whose expression hinted that the resulting uniform bore, at best, a distant resemblence to Dress Greys, was touched and grateful for the gift. Which led to much gnashing of teeth among the other national contingents that we didn't think of it first (Yes, I'm an idiot). I managed to salvage something for the US out of it, by getting his shoulder patch from the flightsuit (now up at MIT, being analyzed from the atoms outward) duplicated and sewn onto his new threads.

Properly attired, Niko endured the motorcade ride into the District with a relaxed attitude. Occasionally, he looked out at the city passing by. Mostly, though, he concentrated on his notes. Most of them were written in Colonial (which I was picking up, but not sufficiently to read his text), with a few words or phrases written in English with Latin characters. As we rolled slowly down Pennsylvania Avenue and pulled into the White House compound, he gave me a grin. "Wish me luck".

* * *

BTS Infodump:

I'm being deliberately vague about the date. The Landing occurs "a few years" from now.

I figured the Greeks (not known for lack of pride in their culture...) would be rather enthused about (sort of) Greeks In Space.

The "Germanic" sounding language is Piconese (not even remotely related to any Germanic language, but has a similar sound to the North Germanic group).

Niko speaks with a slight accent, in Colonial (Colonial is a universal second language, with all children on the 12 Colonies being fluent at an early age, so the accent is noticeable but not heavy). Think of an educated Dutch person (fluent English speaker), who learned the Recieved Pronounciation.

Given the public nature of the Landing, the US Government opted to throw all information out the door (onto the 'Net, actually), almost as soon as it was translated. Both to emphasize the transparent and upright nature of their conduct...and to feed the real global desire to learn about what's going on (which is analogous to how all things Space/Technological were regarded, during the Mercury and Apollo eras).

We'll learn exactly _what_ Niko is trying to find out, in the next update.

I've got Picon as being a low-key version of Prussia/Meiji Japan. The hereditary military officer clans (effectively aristocrats) dominate domestic political discourse and have a big impact on the CF at large. The middle and upper class children all attend military-formatted Primary and Secondary schools (with the better/elite schools offering programs the USMA or Sandhurst could never dream of...that being how Niko got his pilot training). More on that later.

The "Fall of Aerilon" picture (seen in "33"):

I'm postulating (read: making it up) that Tylium is analogous to (but not the same as) Metastable Metallic Hydrogen.

Tylium is a form of condensed matter, naturally-occurring and stable. If excited (input of energy, etc), it reverts back to normal matter, releasing the huge amounts of energy it took to condense the matter.

Ergo, a little goes a long way (note that the Vipers and Raptors don't seem to have much room for large fuel tanks). It's also explosive as hell.

From dialogue in the Mini (Starbuck asks the Chief whether the Mk IIs will fly), the Vipers (and, assumably, the Raptors) have a fusion powerplant. The Tylium is rocket fuel and charges the capacitors for the FTL drive.

I'm not going to specify the type of Fusion (as the canon is next to totally silent on it), and just handwave it as a mature, efficient and reliable technology that isn't out of the reach of early-21st Century Earth. It's an application of technique (that Earth science just "missed" or hadn't even thought of), rather than a wundermaterial or awesome mastery of Plasma Physics. Once you understand the technique, it's not beyond 1980's technology.


	5. Interlude

::Interlude::

"This is a FoxNews Special Report. I'm Rhett Michaelson. In a few moments, America's visitor from the stars, Lieutenant Nikoteros Adelanii, will be formally meeting the President of the United States, here in the White House Rose Garden. There is a palpable air of anticipation here, with everyone eager to hear from the Man of the Hour himself. While we have been told that items related to the alien threat of the Cylons will be addressed at the UN Assembly tomorrow, we do expect the President, who has been engaged in marathon discussions with the British and Russian Prime Ministers, to give some hint as to the the Administration's attitude towards the anticipated request by LT Adelanii for the people of Earth to arms ourselves to confront the Cylons and rescue the lost Fleet.

Also expected is an joint announcement of one or more technologies that have been reverse-engineered from the now famous Raptor, and are to be released commercially.

...Here we go, the President is emerging from the East Wing, and LT Adelanii is just coming up the path...

Lets' listen in:"

"Ladies and Gentlemen, My fellow Americans, People of the Earth. I have today had the singular privilege of greeting Lieutenant Nikoteros Adelanii, of the Colonial Fleet, and our guest for the last seven months. He came to our World bearing a dire warning, and a plea for help for his people...whom we now know to be our distant relatives, by some unknown means. Having consulted with our NATO partners and friends around the World, I can say that we will indeed rise to this challenge...and that, with LT Adelanii's help and advice, plans are in place to do just that. Further details on the specifics of these plans, some military, some economic and social, will be made available on Sunday afternoon. I urge every American, and citizens the World over, to study these plans and determine how best they themselves can contribute.

Speaking of contributions...a little over two weeks ago, researchers at Los Alamos National Laboratories successfully duplicated the microfusion powerplant that the Raptor operates. I am told that, properly scaled upward, such reactors can provide the entirety of our planet's electrical needs..and that a commercial Gigawatt plant could be operational by the end of next year.

Work proceeds apace on the Raptor's countergravity system, with small scale models being successfully operated.

Further, small amounts of the fuel, Tylium, have been synthesized at Oak Ridge. Enough to provide a steady supply to LT Adelanii's Raptor. Accordingly, the LT will be taking the Raptor into space on the first of the month, along with a US/Russian team, to scan the Inner Solar System for naturally-occurring deposits of this ore, so vital to space-based civilization. Once a supply has been located, mining vehicles, already in the design phases, will aquire a stockpile and the work of building our great arsenal may begin.

Make no mistake, within a short span of years, our World will be ready to defend itself. And more.

Thank you."

* * *

Short interlude here, with a non First Person POV.

Speech was a little clunky, but I had to save a lot for the (equally clunky) "UN Speech" that caps off the first Act.

Niko is no great orator (and still has to work through a translator for important stuff), but has had basic training in Rhetoric (Trivium being en vogue in upper class schools on Picon). I'm writing the UN Speech now, and have been forced to (briskly) recap the first 2.5 Seasons (minus everything after "Unfinished Business") of BSG, with Niko tending to put the best face on things (like forgetting to mention Cain, or New Caprica, etc). Trying not to be too overly dramatic, too.

Scene-wise, we only have NYC, the UN and maybe one other (the "Promises" scene), then we're done with Act Two...and developments can really take off.

A hint to bait you for Act Three: "Solar Treaty Organization"


	6. Chapter 6

**PROMISES**

::Meatshield::

Well, I evidently didn't frak up my speech. The various local Players, mainly the G10 and their friends, got busy hammering out an alliance that could meet their desires for effectiveness while still not infringing on their sovereignty. My American hosts and their Russian friends were particularly leery of having their independence compromised...mostly because they thought the other nations were frakups or out to get them.

While all the political wrestling was going on, I kept on the bounce. My little Tylium-prospecting mission went off without...much of a hitch. The NASA guys are evidently a little _too_ used to protracted countdowns and long checklists and GO/NO GO stages. So they were a little...freaked, when I ran through my primary flight checklist in about 90 seconds, lifted off and then boosted for orbit at several kilometers per second.

They were even less pleased when I skipped the hour-long flight to Lunar Orbit by plotting a short-range FTL jump. I have done this before, you know. This way, I also made sure that John Mahler, Colonel, USAF became one of the first two members of the Earthtribe to travel Faster Than Light in...a good long while, evidently. Major Valentina Kozeyeva became the second. After they stopped yelling at me, the sight of their Moon passing underneath us monopolized their attention while I massaged the spectro for a decent lock on the Tylium MASCON the local probes had picked up.

Dialing in on the Tylium lode, I pinpointed it's position. Right square in the major MASCON in what the Earthtribe called the Archimedes crater, on the eastern edge of Imbrium, the Sea of Storms. Of course, a preliminary spectrograph scan _had_ to be backed up by a hands-on investigation. Which is how the photograph of John and Valentina (nearly unrecognizable in their suits, knocked off copies of my own) posing next to their flags, with a two-kilometer high lunar mountain in the background, came to be on the covers of several dozen major periodicals. Valentina became very popular in Russia, due to their failure to reach the Moon during the Earthtribe's first, abortive, big push outward.

That done, and with the mining vehicles being bolted together from individual sections lifted into orbit by the (rather clunky, but serviceable) contragrav tugs (basically large countergrav generators attached to powerful rockets), and my technical advice on Tylium processing being limited to "sneeze and you're frakked"...my attention turned to the military aspects of our problems.

Sitting down with the US Army TRADOC (Training and Doctrine Command, the command responsible for training soldiers and units from the ground up) staff and several representatives of their counterparts from other nations, we went about seeing how to generate the soldiers needed to man a space-based military...effectively from scratch. I gave them a few hints, mainly cribbed from my own experiences in the military school system on Picon, which produced our contingent of Officers ready to serve in the Colonial Fleet (and run the Colony).

There wasn't much we could do with the present national force structures, which were heavy on personnel, particularly in the Officer Corps, who simply couldn't be retrained to crew andoperate space vehicles after a career spent driving jets, helicopters or oceangoing vessels. Many of the senior officers could be taught how to lead crews in space-to-space combat, which is more a matter of memorized technical details and people management...but the Junior- and Mid-grade officers were a near total loss, save in specific specialties (Logistics, Intelligence, Medical, etc).

This meant that the vast bulk of the Junior Officers needed to run capital ships and space ops would have to be raised and trained in the very near future. Accelerated training programs, filled by selecting kids from the right technical-educational background, would work...but leave us with a very green force. That said, there _were_ benefits to having a blank slate for this project...

About 14 months after my arrival, the negotiations and political dancing were complete. The Solar Treaty Organization was born out of the chaos of the Earth's various alliances. My contribution to the festivities, which had pretty much shut down the city of Denver, was a flyover by the first 10 Earth-built Raptors (still without FTLs, as they were continuing to be a pain) and the first (barely functional) Viper. That little display alone seemed to reassure the Cousins as to our forward progress, and lended legitimacy to a very controversial alliance.

The Russian Prime Minister gave the closing remarks, after the leaders of the major Powers had affixed their signatures to the STO Charter.

"Citizens, we have here today established a grand alliance. Not to guard against one another, but to defend our World from annihilation at the hands of a relentless enemy. Our minor differences have been cast aside, as was the case when the great Powers of the Earth last united, and strangled Fascism in it's cradle.

Now we will established an Army and a Space Force to do battle for us, and to expand our civilization out into the stars. After consultation between the Councilmembers, we have chosen to add another mandate to our new force. Nikoteros, the People of the Earth promise you that we will search for your lost Fleet. We will find them. We will deliver them from every evil. We will bring them safely to a new home among us. This is our promise to you, in gratitude for your efforts, and in fraternal loyalty to our distant brothers.

That said...our new military has a rather large problem. We may have to do battle rather sooner than later...and no one born of Earth has any experience whatsoever in space warfare. To this end, the STO Council asks you, Nikoteros, to accept a Commission as an Officer in our Space Force, the first of its kind, insofar as it does not conflict with your prior Oath to the Twelve Colonies. What say you?"

Frak Me.

**END ACT TWO**

* * *

Whew. Now I can get started on Act Three, where there's actual dialogue, and not just recaps of events that happened over months-long periods...

The Raptor-E and Viper Mk. II-E are basically a knockoff of Niko's Raptor and a vehicle that looks like a Viper (but used scaled-down versions of the Raptor countergrav and thrusters), respectively. Most of the avionics are Earth models (adapted, where necessary), with propulsion, power and countergrav being the primary Extraterrestrial components (the hulls are made from the wundermaterials copied from the Raptor). Their primary purpose is to provide a RFN defensive capability for Earth, and to provide Earth's aerospace community with experience manufacturing such. They are primary weapon's systems only up till about Year Three.

The FTL stymies the engineers for a few months more (operational on a limited basis by 2 years PostLanding), and they never fully understand _why_ it works).

Niko, of course, accepts the Commission (as he sees Earth as the legal inheritor of the Twelve Colonies .gov). He's a Brigadier General (which rapidly gets modified to just "General", as the Space Force rank chart takes shape), and occupies a position that is a combination of GEN Curtis LeMay (CINCSAC) and ADM Hyman Rickover (Director of Naval Reactors).  
Mostly a Grey Eminence, with enormous influence but little accountability. Since he's the guy who's building the Army and the Space Force, and the only one who knows what that's supposed to look like, he imitates Picon's military (before the Articles of Colonization)...an organization dominated by dynastic families and cronyism. Helps that he's effectively Buck Rogers to a big chunk of the Earth's population.

Up next: New POV characters (the aforementioned Subadars). A gradual timejump. The story of the Space Force. Starcruisers. Archaeology. Fun. Each update should be bigger than the last few I've done, due to actually having dialogue.


	7. Neumann Report g

NEUMANN REPORT (Fragment g)

Being an Abstract of the Report of the Commission on Strategic Astrocartography

Ulrich Neumann, PhD, Chairman

**EYES ONLY  
PERSONNEL NOT IN POSSESSION OF BLACK SIGMA CLEARANCE ARE TO CEASE READING AND CONTACT YOUR PRIMARY SECURITY SUPERVISOR IMMEDIATELY  
VIOLATION PUNISHABLE BY INDEFINITE INTERNMENT**

**[redacted][BLACK FOLDER]**

**[redacted][BLACK FOLDER]**

**[redacted][BLACK FOLDER]** and based on information provided by COL Adelanii, the Colonial System was determined to be a Binary Star System, located in the Scutum-Centaurus Arm approximately 23,000ly from Sol, in a coreward and antispinward direction. The two stars, Helios Major and Helios Minor, are main sequence G and K type stars, respectively.  
Several habitable (i.e. liquid water) zones result from the presence of the two stars, as each has a subsystem of orbits around it. Caprica and Gemenon (which share an orbital band, around a common barycenter), Leonis, Aerilon and Libran orbit Helios Major. Virgon, Canceron, Picon (COL Adelanii's now-famous homeworld), Sagittaron, Scorpia, Tauron and Aquaria orbit Helios Minor. Scorpia and Aquaria are large moons of the gas giant Ragnar, which occupies Helios Minor's outer orbital band.  
The three gas giants in the system (Ragnar, Scylla and Ducalion) are themselves host to systems of moons, including the aforementioned two Colonies. Troy being an example of a Titan-size moon that was host to a subcolony of Scorpia.  
Significant high-capability Planetary Engineering is implicit in any description of the Colonial System. COL Adelanii maintains that no Planetary Engineering was performed by the Twelve Tribes. Quote: "We found them like that".

The Kobol system, rediscovered by the Colonial Refugee Fleet during their exodus from the Colonies, is also located in the Scutum-Centaurus Arm, at a distance of approximately 21,000ly from Sol. COL Adelanii was unable to provide significant data on the Kobol system. Kobol itself is known to be habitable, having recovered from some unknown cataclysm (see Appendix K) that forced the first Colonial exodus.

The planet New Caprica is located within a dark nebula. This is extremely significant, due to the impossibility of a habitable planet, specifically a human-supporting biosphere, developing or surviving while insolation from the system Primary (a K-type, in the case of New Caprica) is reduced by the dust of the nebula. New Caprica's habitability, and its compatible flora and fauna, are further evidence of a large-scale program of Planetary Engineering conducted by parties unknown (presumably the Precursor civilization that transplanted a human population from Earth to Kobol, see Appendix K).

Following the starmap holographic display found in the "Tomb of Athena" on Kobol, the Colonial Refugee Fleet determined that the Lagoon Nebula (what we also know as Messier Object 80, the name obviously being an artifact of common imagination) was a marker on the road to Earth. Given COL Adelanii's knowledge of Fleet operations up to the day of his seperation, it is his considered opinion that the Fleet will attempt to reach the Lagoon Nebula, and there search for another marker left by the Thirteenth Tribe (who are now widely considered to have reached Earth at some point in the Late Bronze Age, see Appendix B).

As the Lagoon Nebula is located at a distance of 4500ly, relative to Sol on a direct bearing to the Colonies, this requires a crossing of approximately 14,000ly, based on the Fleets position as last known by COL Adelanii. Standard Faster-Than-Light jump range is between 5 and 10 ly, with a maximum safe jump range of 14ly. Average jump frequency during the post-New Caprica period was 2.7 jumps per week.  
With an average jump range of 9ly (arbitrary average), with the Fleet jumping a statistical average of 2.7 times per week, it will require 11.08 Standard Years for the Fleet to arrive at the Lagoon Nebula. These figures are preliminary, and do not account for many variables.

Cylon Capabilities, when combined with their knowledge of Colonial **[redacted][BLACK FOLDER]**

**

* * *

**

The Neuman Commission operates for a few months late in Year Two. It's purpose is to ascertain the "State of The Galaxy", in relation to Earth.

The Lagoon Nebula looks the same from the Colonies as it does from Earth, so the nebula is on a direct bearing to both (IOW, draw a line from Earth to the Colonies, and the nebula is on that line).

Black Folder/Black Sigma is the classification code for all the "we'd rather the public didn't know" stuff, and is limited to the extreme upper echelons of the STO and SF/Army Staffs. The leaking of several fragments of the Neumann Report resulted in a few people disappearing.


	8. STO Armed Force Rank Chart

Rank Chart

Solar Army: ... Solar Space Force:

Ranks

Field Marshal ... Force Marshal

Lieutenant General ... Lieutenant General

Major General ... Major General

General ... General

Colonel ... Colonel

... Commissioned Officers

Major ... Major

Captain ... Captain

Lieutenant ... Lieutenant

Subadar-Major ... Subadar-Major

... Junior Commissioned Officers

Subadar ... Subadar

Warrant Officer (WO-1 through WO-4)

Sergeant Major ... Sergeant Major

Master ... Master Sergeant  
Sergeant

Staff Sergeant/

Colour Sergeant ... Technical Sergeant

... NCO's & Other Ranks

Sergeant ... Sergeant

Corporal ... Technical Corporal

Lancer ... -None-

Rifleman ... Trooper

* * *

(Gahhh, the formatting took out all of my spaces...)

In the Army, Colour Sergeant is a billet (Sergeants and Staff Sergeants eligible) for the NCO who is responsible for the Company Banner or the Regimental Colours.

Pay grade is modified by rank (within zones of TIS), but is primarily dictated by Time In Service. Thus, a 10-year man who holds the rank of Trooper makes significantly more than a Trooper with 1 year under his belt...but not as much as a Sergeant.

In the Space Force, Technical Corporals are referred to informally as "Corporals" (the rank that was originally between Tech Corporal and Trooper, but was obsoleted by events).

Subadars and Subadars-Major may not, in the ordinary run of things hold a permanent Leadership billet (such as Platoon Leader or Section/Flight Officer), but are often assigned to lead sub-units, control stations, work parties or TDY, when not assisting superior officers.

The "Force" in "Force Marshal" refers both to one of the Numbered Space Forces (groups of Space Wings) and to the Solar Space Force itself.

FYI: the STO has no equivalent to the National Security Act of 1947 or Goldwater Nichols. The Space Force and the Army are independant and have no overarching organization, both CinC's answer directly to the STO Council (when they can be bothered to meet).


	9. Act 3  Earthrise

**ACT THREE**  
"Out ride the Sons of Terra  
Far drives the thundering jet  
Up leaps a Race of Earthmen  
Out far and onward yet..."

**EARTHRISE.**

::Subadar Elspeth "Posh" McAndrews::

Is it possible to fall hopelessly in love with a man you've never met, only seen on the telly? Sounds daft, doesn't it? It happened to me.

I was 12 years old when the Landing occurred. I remember sitting in front of the telly in our living room, watching as the BBC crew did their level best to maintain a stiff upper lip, despite being just as caught up in the moment as everyone at the Cape or in a billion or so homes and pubs around the world. Watching live as the most definitive moment in Human history played out in front of my eyes. Kids today have the benefit of hindsight (and being able to skip ahead one chapter in their history texts), but no one except for GEN Mahler, Niko and a few others were privy to what happened after they marched into the hangar. I didn't sleep at all that night, staying glued to the screen, watching as the wild mass guessing continued.

When the American President announced that there were killer robots on their way, and that Niko had offered us his people's technology...well, it didn't take a genius to figure out where that was headed...The proclamation of the STO alliance, a few months later, was not as much of a surprise as you'd think. The establishment of the Solar Space Force and Army was a dream come true for a lot of kids like me. Who wouldn't want to leave the slums to go fight Terminators in space with a handsome prince-slash-Dan-Dare from another planet? George Lucas didn't exactly go broke on that formula. Fine, Niko wasn't a Prince, but a minor aristocrat was close enough for a generation of teenage girls watching the whole thing play out on telly.

I was never a genius. I wasn't bloody stupid, either. I wanted out of Easterhouse, out of Glasgow and out of a life that looked destined to end up as a Dole Bludger, with my biggest concern being who's getting kicked off Britain's Got talent. A description which fits exactly 100% of the rest of the foul tribe I had the luck to be born into.

To this end, I spent hours, after school, every day, in the public library down the street. I studied everything I could about Physics and Maths, as well as the Colonial grammar and corpus published by the Language Team that had worked with Niko. I worked on my accent, trying to lose the Glaswegian patter, in favor of the Recieved Pronunciation...being a ginger from the Glasgow underclass is bad enough for your chances, sounding like one is worse. Speaking into a mirror for hours on end, while you listen to Harriet Cass on Radio 4, makes you look like a complete nutter, by the way.

I had my eyes on one prize, and one prize only. A spot at one of the several dozen Military Schools that had been established across the planet by the STO. Get enough of the right scores on my Highers, and I could apply to any or all of them. Get into one...and I'd be halfway to Space. A prestigious (and amply renumerated) career and a life of action.

Just prior to my 16th birthday, I sat my Highers exams (a year earlier than most schoolchildren in the UK). Physics, Chemistry, Maths, Biology and European History, resulting in 4 A's and a B (in EuroHist). My application went in to the STO Recruiting Command (which would distribute it to all the Schools I selected...which was all of them) the day after I got my results from UCAS. Hilariously, I wasn't competing with the human computers who tended to dominate academics, since many of them had...issues with social interactions, and never made it past the behavioural screening or the peer evaluations conducted during the three day Potential Officers Board. The Space Force had no use for the Asperger's crowd, as they tended not to be functional within the military equation. That left me competing for one of tens of thousands of spaces with only the merely smart (statistical outliers notwithstanding), as opposed to the single-item geniuses who could work out differential equations in their heads.

As events transpired, I was accepted to the Solar Institute of Military Sciences, one of the mid-ranked Schools, located outside Denver, formerly a part of the United States, but now the STO administrative Headquarters and fiefdom. It wasn't exactly the Rikugun Toyama Gakkom, but the STO Sun Disk was hung over the gate, so it was more than sufficient unto my needs.

The Institute was a combined corps, with both Space Force and Army programs on the one campus (about a third of the schools were like this, with the rest being single-Service institutions), but with seperate training programs. Our School Rag was metallic silver, worn around the waist. Roughly 2000 students entered in my class (the second full cohort to be inducted). The altitude had half of us in our bunks for days with "Denver Fever".

28 months of lectures, studying and memorization, practicals and field training exercises followed. The nights filled with the dull crump of light artillery (real or simulated) from the Maneuver Area across the highway, as the Army students went about their wargames. The thrill of your first hands-on Raptor flight, after a hundred hours of simulator time. The ache in your hands and wrists caused by recoil from the 10mm sidearms you've spent most of an afternoon firing. Early morning PT. Late nights cramming for practicals. A weekend spent drinking in the Club (the Space Force and Army run on two fuels; Tylium for the machines and Ethanol for the people). Working towards fluency in Colonial. All capped by the 90 day Field Training Exercise on a stripped-down SDV (the _Infinite Horizon_) in Lunar Orbit, pretending to conduct patrol ops as we all took turns at various duties and leadership billets.

It was during the capstone FTX that we watched the _Lion of Terra_, our first Starcruiser, lift off from Pad A at Archimedes. On the _Horizon_, we had an actual real-life assignment; to stand by and provide assistance for the Lion's launch crew, if something went wrong (lifting that kind of mass, even with Luna's shallow gravity well and using huge countergrav boosters...is pretty fraught).

Everyone not assigned to a duty post was glued to the monitors, as the vast pearl-and-chrome wedge of the Starcruiser slowly floated upward from the pad, climbing toward it's 100km orbit. It moved away from the other two Pads, B and C, on which two other massive hulls could be seen taking shape. The 18 massive twin-mount 90cm turrets on the dorsal aspect, in their flush-to-the-hull "safe" positions, were easy to pick out.

Ascending through 30km, the primary drives were engaged, flaring red as they kicked the vehicle into a stable orbit. Watching on a tactical repeater monitor in the _Horizon_'s CIC, I knew where I wanted to be in a few short months.

Of course, as it happened...

The yearly Graduation ceremony at the Institute (a 3-year old "tradition", at that point) was a quick and dirty affair, as were most of the (very few) Canine & Equine Displays tolerated by the Solar Armed Forces. The summer sun beat down on the Quadrangle filled with 1432 graduating students.

The Army students, usually visibly uncomfortable when not covered in a layer of mud, blood or their own vomit, had cleaned up nicely for the show, and stood formed up in one battalion mass. Their summer dress uniform of creme and gold, with the golden pauldron in the shape of a stylized lions face worn on the left shoulder, reflected the sunlight back across the field at me as I stood in the ranks of the Space Force students.

I, on the other hand, was boiling hot in my not-designed-for-outdoor-events "tropical" dress Reds, their shade of sangria red not doing much to prevent insolation. The black carbon fibre Space Force pauldron, with the ringed planet and rocketship emblem, managed to turn my left shoulder into a mass of grilled meat.

The Insitute's Commandant led us in the Oath of Office, and I repeated the words:

"I, Elspeth McAndrews, swear to defend the Solar Treaty Organization, as an Officer in the Solar Treaty Organization Space Force, and to obey the orders of those Generals and Officers appointed above me, so help me God."

...and Just. Like. That. I was Subadar McAndrews, SF.

Some new Officers requested furloughs after Graduation, to spend time with their families. I, of course, put myself up for Open Assignment (Starside), meaning I wanted anything that got me offplanet...and straightaway.

For my sins, I got what I asked for. Attachment to the Adjutant General's division...on Luna, at Archimedes. Not a Leadership billet, but those are few and far between for Subadars. As an Adjutant, I'd get to press the flesh and perform for the people who actually needed aides-de-camp...such as Generals and senior Commanders.

I hopped a flight on a Civil Service transport from Heliopolis SFB to Lunagrad, Luna's major (and currently only) city. The various civvy types, Civil Service mandarins and families boosting up to start news lives as lunar colonists, gave our small pack of newly-minted Subadars a wide berth. We were still pretty thin on the ground, and our Scarlet Patrols, with their bright scarlet tunics and black trousers, made us look like we meant business (even though we had to stow our sidearms in our checked luggage). Probably made a few Recruits, too, if the looks some of the kids gave us were any indication.

"Think they'll get the _Lion_ out of LLO this week, Subadar?". I turned away from staring out the window and focused on the speaker. A nondescript man. Eurasian, early thirties, Civil Service pin on his tunic. "Most likely. I understand they've got the atmospheric pooling issue locked down.", I replied. "Steven Fox, Clerk Censor", he said, extending his hand in that you-will-engage-in-conversation tactic so beloved of Americans.

"Subadar Elspeth McAndrews, SF" I responded, shaking the proffered paw.

"Headed out to your first Posting?". "Yes, Sir. AG Corps, attached to Force Command at Archimedes". A raised eyebrow at that, "Force Command? That's a pretty deluxe assignment. The whole show is run from there. You'll be working for the Marshals themselves". I nodded, allowing myself a grin. "Hopefully, it's just the start".

"Oh ho! Hoping to command one of the Starcruisers, someday? Might be sooner rather than later, given the rate of expansion. I help ride herd on Aquisitions for the Arsenal, and we've just begun ordering new ilmenite supplies. By the megaton".

That got my attention; "So they're going to do it?", I asked. "The AEC's official announcement is scheduled for Thursday, but it's confirmed; As soon as the Tranche 1 vehicles clear their Pads, work starts on Tranche 2. There's even funding for construction to start on additional Pads. It's Christmas time. Though hopefully, none of them will bear the noble name of...I don't know.._Scooby Doo_. Honestly: the _Dreamwave_? Not exactly calculated to strike fear into our enemy's chrome hearts..."

"That's what we have the three dozen 90cm batteries for", I snarked.

At that moment, I turned my head to the viewport and watched the great silver-grey arc of Luna come into view, as the transport entered a parking orbit and awaited a slot on Lunagrad's spaceport apron.

At the edge of the horizon, you could just make out the vicinity of Archimedes. The bright specks radiating out from it were the SDV and SCV assembly lines on the maria. The Pads were, of course, on the other side of the base and below the horizon.

**"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the Pilot speaking. Please resume your seats and engage your harnesses as we prepare for our landing at Lunagrad Spaceport. The local time is 1332hrs, UTC. Please allow uniformed Servicemembers to disembark first. Thank you."**

* * *

Next stop, Luna and Archimedes SFB. I'm editing the next part, and it should be up in a day or so. I went ahead and posted this part because there's a natural scene break there. The conversation is short, as I was attempting to avoid an obvious "As You Know, Bob..." infodump. A lot more interaction coming up, as I rejoice in being able to write dialogue again.

Notes:

School Rags are a tradition borrowed from Niko's tales of Piconese schooling. Essentially a type of School or Regimental Tie, except it's a sash worn either diagonally across the torso or around the waist. A solid color or geometric design indicates the School. After graduation and commissioning, it is worn on the Service and Dress uniforms.

Denver and the area immediately surrounding it were forfeited to the STO as an HQ/enclave. Late in Year 5 it's renamed "Heliopolis", and starts to transform into the terrestrial admin center of the STO (the STO Council meets there). Lots of construction, but the limited Sovereign Area causes it to turn into a cleaner version of Kowloon, with the Art Deco theme that the STO loves.

Lunagrad is the primary civilian zone on Luna (a second city, Selenopolis, is founded in Year 7), and houses the bulk of the workers and Civil Service administrators that support the Army/SF bases and the Arsenal. Mining operations tend to either run their own habitats (which can get pretty big) or operate out of the city.

The Arsenal is the giant industrial effort on Luna. Everything from the Pads to the SDV/SCV construction lines. All owned and operated by the AEC.

Scarlet Patrols are a semi-formal ("Business Casual" in civilian terms) uniform, recommended/mandated for travel and other situations where professional appearance and comfort are both concerns.

As always, comments welcome and appreciated.


	10. Glossary

AEC: Astronautical Engineering Corporation. Chartered Joint-Stock Company (50% of shares held by the STO itself). Provides manufacturing, construction, maintenance and research services.

AAR: After Action Report.

Asimov Arrays: [redacted]

Bayerische Offizierschule: First-tier Military School. Munich, Germany.

BLACK FOLDER: [redacted]

BLACK SIGMA: [redacted]

Cermet: Ceramic-Metallic composite.

CNT: Carbon Nanotubes.

CODE PENELOPE: [redacted]

"Eagle": AE-2 Recon Spacecraft. FTL-capable. 2 crew, 10-12 pax. Manufactured by AEC.

"Egret": C-912 personnel transport. Militarized variant of Tupolev 511 Transatmospheric/Interorbital Vehicle. 2 crew, 15-20 pax.

EDG: Earth Defense Grid. Megaproject.

"Hawk": Mikoyan 115 space superiority fighter. 20m x 18m x 6m. First domestically-designed Earth combat spacecraft. Rocket engines are in pods at the end of the wings.

HPC: High Performance Concrete. Addition of CNT strands and polymer to aggregate and reinforcement with CNT structural rods produces extremely high (80 MPa) compressive strength and high Elastic Modulus.

Mark, Solar: STO Currency. Backed by a basket of national currencies and commodities. 1 Mark = US$1.6 1 Cent is 0.01 of 1 Mark. Banknotes (5/10/20/50/100), coins (.01/.05/.20/.50/1/2/5) and Secured Credit Pods (portable electronic P2P fund transfer devices).

Pads, The: Lunar construction facilities for fabrication and assembly of Starcruisers. Archimedes SFB.

Megaproject.

Panopticon: [redacted]

RCT: Regimental Combat Team. Primary independant unit. 3x Battalions, plus supporting Arms slices.

~4,000-5,000 personnel.

Rikugun Toyama Gakkom: First-tier Military School. Kyoto, Japan.

SFB: Space Force Base.

SCV: Space Control Vehicle. ~600m long. 2x flight pods. 5 Fighter Squadrons. 2000 personnel. Armament is mostly point defense, with only light primary batteries.

SDV: Space Dominance Vehicle. ~600m long. No flight pods. 12x dual-mount 60cm CLGG turrets (6 turrets each, dorsal and ventral surfaces). 2 Heavy Missile batteries. 24x double batteries of 28cm Electrothermal-chemical autocannons. 48x 7.5cm autocannon emplacements. 1500 personnel.

SIMS: Solar Institute of Military Sciences. Middle-rank Military Military School. Heliopolis.

"Snake Eaters": unofficial term for Solar Army light infantry troops.

SAS: Solar Astrographic Survey.

SIXS: Solar Institute of Xenoarcheological Studies.

SoA: Solar Army (Formally: Army of the Solar Treat Organization).

SoC: Solar Carabinieri (Formally: Solar Treaty Organization Carabinieri).

SolNet: System-wide network of interconnected local computer networks. Light lag results in communications beyond 1 Lunar Unit being limited to recorded video, semi-instant Text or email.

SoSF: Solar Space Force (Formally: Solar Treaty Organization Space Force).

Starcruiser: Primary SoSF combatant. Designed for sustained remote operations. 20,000 personnel (with Army RCT embarked). Megaprojects.

Starside: Assignment off-Earth.

Stgw 7: Sturmgewehr 7 / Raumsoldatgewehr 7. 8mm (7.92x50mm) battle rifle. Cased Telescoped ammunition. 45 round magazine.

STO: Solar Treaty Organization.

USV: Utility Space Vehicles. Light/Medium cargo and personnel transports. 50-200m length.

Vault, The: Headquarters of the Solar Treaty Organization Armed Forces. Archimedes SFB, Luna.

Ziggurat, The: First-tier Military School. [redacted]. Vancouver, Canada.


	11. Act 3 Chapter 2

**"Horatius," quoth the Consul, "As**  
**thou sayest, so let it be."**  
**And straight against that great array**  
**forth went the dauntless Three.**  
**For Romans in Rome's quarrel**  
**spared neither land nor gold,**  
**Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,**  
**in the brave days of old.**  
**Then none was for a party; then all**  
**were for the State;**  
**Then the great man helped the poor,**  
**and the poor man loved the great.**  
**Then lands were fairly portioned;**  
**then spoils were fairly sold:**  
**The Romans were like brothers in**  
**the brave days of old.**

– _Thomas Babington, Lord MacAulay,_  
_"Horatius" (1842)_

::Subadar Elspeth "Posh" McAndrews::  
::Luna::

After exchanging calling cards with the Clerk Censor ("new officers should take every opportunity to expand one's social network", sayeth Debrett's Solar Officer's Manual), I disembarked the spacecraft. The atmosphere inside the jetway, mated to the Transport's airlock and connecting to a similar lock on the Terminal side, was very thin, as a precautionary measure against explosive decompression. Moving through the Terminal lock, we made our way past the Carabinieri checkpoint, our Service rank pins declaring our authority via RFID.

Past the checkpoint, the Terminal opened up into a vast arcade, forming a hub for the landing pads and the pedestrianways leading off in several directions. A food court was located across the arcade from the checkpoint, catering to a dozen different tastes and cultures, from Japanese BBQ to Tex-Mex to pickled herring.

Past that was the Services Lounge, my destination, a chillout zone for military personnel in transit through Lunagrad Spaceport.

Bellying up to the bar, I ordered tea (after finding out they actually did have Tetley's), not wanting to get the liquor started early and risk reporting for duty smelling like a pub. Taking my cup, I moved over and established myself at a table on the veranda. The view was amazing, overlooking the main concourse of the spaceport, toward the main hub of Lunagrad itself. The concourse was a great vaulting cavern, carved out of the solid basalt of the Montes Archimedes and brightly lit by a series of mirrored lamps. Within the cavern, a multilevel structure of offices, warehouses, shops and entertainment centers was laid out. All with the Art Deco gilding that the AEC architects were mad for. Hordes (well, several hundred people. Which is a horde for any one place, on Luna) of people went to and fro about their business; spaceport technicians, Civil Service clerks, packs of schoolchildren, the odd Space Force or Army uniform. At the far end of the cavern, the massive airlock installation, connecting the spaceport with the main hub, was visible.

After half an hour or so of lounging about enjoying my tea, they announced that the train for Archimedes was ready to board. Getting a last view of the spaceport concourse, I picked up my luggage and walked down to the train platform beneath the Terminal.

The train system connecting Lunagrad with Archimedes and Artemis SFBs, as well as the currently under construction site of Selenopolis, runs on a maglev course across the lunar surface as well as a stretch of tunnel through the Montes Archimedes. A battalion of Space Force Engineers had cut the tunnel and built up the surface trackway, using plasma tunnel boring machines to cut rock and vitrify regolith, within two months, back  
when Lunagrad was just a series of buried construction shacks.

After boarding the train through a jetway-style airlock, I took my seat behind a chattering group of Army subadars. Two Lieutenants, one Army and one SF, huddled together across a table at the front of the compartment, muttering at one another as they gestured at some paperwork. The Army LT caught my eye, as his checkered yellow-on-black School Rag declared him an alumnus of the Ziggurat.

Leaving the station, the train acclerated through the transmontane tunnels. After ten minutes or so of rock walls, mostly anorthosite, blurring by at three hundred kilometers per hour, we shot out of the rim wall of Crater Archimedes. Our course looped around to the west, to allow us to approach the Base without approaching the tylium refinery and associated stockpiles in the massive tank fields.

Immediately visible, looming above the northern horizon, were the two vast pearl-and-chrome forms of the two Starcruisers (_Invictus_ and _Odyssey_) currently nearing completion, as well as the towering gantries of the Pad which had only recently been vacated by the _Lion_. Scattered across the crater floor, several clusters of minor vehicles could be seen in various stages of assembly. SDVs and SCVs, mostly, with each cluster centered on a common fabrication plant.

Of the Space Force Base itself, not much was visible. It was mostly a subsurface affair, with only landing pads and service buildings above ground. Concealed heavy weapons batteries were distributed in firing arrays across the entire crater. Some of them were visible at the moment, as their systems were still being installed. When complete, the would be able to sweep the orbitals clear of any enemy force and would be tied into the full System Defense Grid currently taking shape throughout cislunar space.

As we glided into the rail access station, a Hawk interceptor shot out of a concealed launch tube a few hundred meters away. The large engine at the end of each wing, as well as the long, narrow fuselage, knife-like nose and small vertical stabilizers, immediately differentiated the Mig-115 from the old Viper-E's. I had enough time to watch it spin once on it's axis and boost for orbit, before we entered the sloping tunnel down to the main rail platform of Archimedes SFB.

After passing through security at the terminal, I joined in with the flow of people moving through the main corridors of Archimedes. Not as much of a pulse as Lunagrad displayed, but the bulk of the civilians were in the Cantonment, where the recreational facilities, barracks and family quarters were located, in the northern sectors of the Base. Most of the personnel in the main corridors were going about the business of the Armed Forces or Civil Service, and moved along at a brisk clip.

I arrived at Force Command, and was confronted by the Grand Facade. Golden sunbursts, inlaid into the polished basalt ten meters high, fronted the entrance. High reliefs, rendered with nickel and gold, depicted the achievements of the last decade, from the Landing to a brand new segment illustrating the _Lion_ boosting from it's Pad. Panels spelling out the Solar Treaty in four languages bracketed the doors.

A Section of Space Force troopers manned the Entry Control Point. The RFID chirps from my rank pins wouldn't be sufficient to gain entrance here. Biometrics, combined with a swipe of my Identity Card, was required.

After handing my card to a Trooper, I placed my hand in the decorative golden lion's mouth (a bit much, in my opinion). A heartbeat later, having been confirmed as myself, my card was returned and I was passed into the heart of Earth's war machine.

I had been in the Vault before, as part of Starside Training, before we went up to the _Infinite Horizon_, but never into the Staff blocs. I had to consult a map terminal to find the AG liason for Personnel. After a minute spent musing at the display, I headed to the office.

"Right, Miss, we've been expecting you", the Personnel NCO assured me, tapping keys on the terminal in front of him. The printer spat out a slim stack of flimsies that he bound with a folder and handed to me. "You're assigned to the aides-de-camp of the Commanding General, Long Range Planning Division". Nodding my thanks, I headed out into the thoroughfare.

I was fifty meters down the corridor before it sank in. CG of the LRPD. Niko.

That is, General Nikoteros Adelanii. The LRPD was the guiding agancy for the entire STO military-technical effort. No major contract or project got approved, no senior command slot was approved, without the LRPD's seal of approval. It was the power behind the throne.

Jackpot.

Very carefully **not** running, I got another set of directions and headed to the sector of the Staff bloc where the LRPD made their lair.

Striding in through the bamboo (really?) doors, I began to identify myself to the duty NCO...only to be silenced by her upraised hand. Responding to my raised eyebrows, she pointed to a notice posted on the wall to me left:

Quote:

**NO ENGLISH!**

Beyond this point, only Colonial is to be spoken by LRPD personnel.  
25 Mark fine, each violation.  
This means you!

By order of Subadar-Major von Schönberg.

Regaining my composure, I switched to Colonial; "Subadar Elspeth McAndrews, to see the Duty Officer, with Credentials". Handing my file to the Corporal, I stood easy, as was taught.

The Corporal thumbed through my file, nodded to me, "Ma'am". She motioned me down the corridor behind her massive desk. "Second-to-last door, on your right. Subadar-Major von Schönberg is expecting you".

I marched my way down a long hallway, past a dozen or so offices filled with NCOs and junior officers laboring at computers or reading hardcopies. The low chatter of conversation and the smells of coffee and tea permeated the atmosphere in the hallway. The rock walls were sporadically decorated with both panoramas of the lunar surface and notices bearing various fulminating maxims and posted by the order of one Subadar-Major von Schönberg.

At the end of the hallway there was a set of sturdy-looking oak doors. The nameplate rivetted to the wall beside the doors proclaimed the occupant as GEN N. Adelanii (SoSF), Commanding General, Long Range Planning Division. The Space Force Seal, surrounded by a laurel wreath, was inlaid in nickel into each door.

The last office on the right, my destination, had its door standing open. Standing tall in the doorway, I rapped smartly on the frame.

The Officer working at the room's large desk looked up. He had, perhaps, two years on me. He was blonde, with green eyes and a large scar on the left side of his face, curving up from his jaw to his temple. The platinum sword pins of a Subadar-Major decorated the collar of the rifle green Army Starside Barrack Dress (the No.13 Uniform...or perhaps No.9, I can never keep the Army uniform scheme straight). Laying his stylus down on the desk, he gestured me forward. Crossing to the desk, I braced to attention.

"Subadar Elspeth McAndrews, reporting for duty, Sir". "At ease. Your credentials, please?", he prompted. His Colonial Standard was flavored with a distinct South German accent. Handing over the document packet that declared both my qualifications and my assignment to this Command, I stood easy, waiting for him to finish his cursory scan of the flimsies.

"I'm Subadar-Major von Schönberg. Senior Aide to GEN Adelanii. Until my promotion last month, I held the position you will now take over. Namely, primary personal assistant to the General. We will discuss specifics once you get settled in".

"Yes, Sir. Allow me to congratulate you on your promotion", I said. "I'm eager to get started". My new superior nodded in approval. "Do you drink?", he asked. "To excess, Sir", I shot back, bragging about one's feats of intoxication being a tradition inherited from our Russian and French antecedents. "Good. You'll fit in around here. I cannot trust a Soldier who will not drink. Now get up to the main Hangar", he said, handing me a sheaf of papers wrapped around a travel chit.

"Subadar-Major?". "The General is Earthside. Which means you are on a shuttle, RFN. Get down there, find the General and begin robbing dogs for him." He rose and escorted me to the door of his office. As he rounded the desk, I noted both his height, a hair over 190cm, and the royal blue-and-white School Rag of the Bayerische Offizierschule around his waist. The scar must be a smite-mark, then. Academic fencing wasn't practiced back at the Institute, but the european Schools (and those which imitate them) are mad for it. Bigger than Football.

"Corporal Martinez will make sure your kit gets to your quarters. Grab your overnight bag and bounce to the Hangar. The General is observing a new RCT on exercise at the Denali Maneuver Area. When you get back with him, check in with me. The JO's get together at the Officer's Club, every night at 1800hrs, duty permitting. _Auf wiedersehen_!".

The troopbay of the personnel transport (a first-gen Raptor-E, stripped down) was stuffed with irritated troops and officers. Irritated at me, having been held at the Hangar doors until I got there. Bugger them all. I had priority.

Not bothering to glare back at them, I spent the three hour flight reviewing my duty packet. This forbidding-looking sheaf of flimsies, produced by Corporal Martinez on my way out, laid out, in broad terms, the current concerns of the CG, LRPD. Manpower (a perennial concern in our rapidly expanding forces), the final readiness checks of the first deployable operational elements, Vehicle construction, the upcoming interstellar Expeditions...and "Individual Line Items" (read: Black Folder projects). Even his itinerary was redacted!

As it turned out, the Denali Maneuver Area, along with most of Western Canada, was being blasted by a Condition One blizzard. The transport was forced to land under instruments, as visibility was effectively zero, and we had to deplane directly to a snow vehicle. The SUSV crawled across the main Post and dropped us off at the main lobby of the barracks block's transient Lodge.

It had been a long day, with a roundtrip through cislunar space, and I was fighting off the yawns as I waited for the General's party to return to the Lodge. According to his itinerary, he was out observing the capstone exercises of RCT 5, which were likely to have continued, blizzard or not. I had resorted to black tea and pacing, to keep from falling asleep.

The main doors slammed open, aided by an ice-rimed boot, and a dozen troops crowded into the foyer. The pairs at the front and rear carried battle rifles at port arms and surveyed the interior of the Lodge and the outside, respectively. The others busied themselves slapping snow and ice from sleaves and pants.

As they removed their breathing hoods and ski masks, I recognized Captain Melanie Costa. One of the Five, now an Officer of the Space Force Fusiliers and, according to my briefing packet, head of the LRPD's security detachment (effectively the General's Life Company, but providing Force Protection to the Division at large, as well). Median height, with short blonde hair, she cocked her head at me as I stood waiting in the lounge entrance.

"Subadar Elspeth McAndrews reporting to GEN Adelanii", I chirped up, "on orders from-". "Subadar-Major von Schönberg", a new voice cut in. "Dieter seems to have the officer moving along at his usual suicidal pace".

The speaker, slapping ice from his parka's shoulders, stepped out from the group behind Costa. Nikoteros Adelanii had ash-blonde hair and icy blue eyes and stood about 170cm. He still had the moon pale skin and slender build (...and that's quite enough of the Harlequin Romance language, thank you!) he'd had the day he stepped out of the Raptor onto the pavement at KSC to shake Mahler's hand, almost six years ago. He'd put on some muscle, filling out with better nutrition and rest.

Shaking my hand, the Fastest Man Alive said "Your service is accepted, Subadar. Welcome to the Division", his English carrying the slightly alien accent a generation of impressionable youth had grown up imitating. His hand was warm and dry in mine, and I'm afraid that I let my grip linger a beat longer than was strictly necessary.

* * *

-  
Notes: I'll try to make it implicit, via context, as to what dialogue is in Colonial and what's in English (German, French, Italian, etc, will be obvious, of course). I tried to use different fonts, but it was wayyy too messy (and distracting).

The Mikoyan 115 "Hawk" is the main (and first really worthwhile) domestic Earth fighter design, and begins displacing the Viper-E's (which were basically copied and scaled Raptor propulsion systems mated with Terrestrial-sourced avionics, shoehorned into a copy of a Viper airframe...and weren't really near as good as a real Viper) late in Year 4.  
It's also a lot larger and more survivable than a Viper (Mk. II or VII), being 20m long, 18m wide and 6m in height. The rocket engines are in pods at the end of the wings, rather than on the rear of the fuselage (as in the Viper). Two 20mm coil guns in the wing roots and multiple slots for missiles in an ordnance bay in the bottom rear of the fuselage.

The AE-2 Eagle (built by the AEC) likewise begins replacing the Raptor-E's. It's a much closer analogue of the Raptor, though.

Rank pins (worn only on Service, Casual and Dress uniforms, for security reasons) have RFID tags that chirp location and identity of personnel when queried by scanners.

The Carabineri is the third STO Service. Military Police (with dual authority, both military and civilian). Based, quite closely, on the Italian Carabinieri and French Gendermerie. In Year 6, they control the security apparatus off-Earth (as well as certain STO enclaves on Earth).

The currency of the STO is the Solar Mark. It's, effectively, the only hard currency off of Earth (not counting a few national stations in LEO), and is backed by a basket of commodities (both terrestrial and otherwise).

Selenopolis is going to be the second actual city (Lunagrad being the first, and the SFBs not counting, though their populations are pretty large too) on Luna.

We'll meet our other Major POV character (for this Act), Dieter von Schönberg. Then we're off to explore the life and times as they stand at the midpoint of Year Six. A few friends from Acts One and Two will return. We'll see the _Lion of Terra_ on it's first actual training/experimental deployment. More of Lunagrad and Archimedes. Later on, we'll address the Manpower issues (the STO SF is expanding too slowly to man all the necessary units), some politics and the first Starcruiser FTL jump.

There's also another fragment of the Neumann Report on the way.


	12. Act 3 Chapter 3

Mercifully able to avoid stammering or giggling like the schoolgirl I was not too far removed from, I fell in with the General's retinue as we moved from the foyer into the Lodge proper. A Lieutenant began setting up a secure SolNet link in a booth across from the Bar.

The bar staff produced tea and coffee for us, and we swung into the business of constructing and submitting the Immediate AAR for the week's field exercises. A larger, more in-depth report would follow in a few day, but it was important to log the Observer's (the General, in this case) initial views and remarks. As we filled in the blanks and "preparer's comments" blocks of various OD-xxxx forms, it began to look as if RTC 5 was ready for deployment.

Setting his cup down, the General continued his dictation. "As soon as the Stgw 7 is issued, General Taormino's RCT should be able to handle any likely Cylon opposition, in a standup fight. Especially if it is just the standard Centurion and Hovercraft mix that the Resistance was faced with on Caprica. Outlook not so good at close quarters, I'm afraid. Unless the Panzergrenadiers work out, a counterboarding action on a space Vehicle, or an urban fight could become very ugly..."

Typing the remarks, in bullet format, into the comments block of the evening's last form, I was stifling yawns. Paperwork had successfully overcome the excitement of working alongside...well...

"Alright, enough literature for tonight!", the General declared. "We've ninety minutes before the Egret is scheduled to boost. Police up the paperwork, save your documents and secure our gear. Then hit the bar and get something to eat".

Not wanting to fall into a coma on the flight back, I opted for a pint of Strongbow and some potato wedges. Most of the others (aside from the Fusiliers) went straight for the distilled stuff, having been out in the Fimbulwinter all day. I was trying to maneuver myself into the General's orbit, hoping to start up a conversation, when I saw Captain Costa beckoning me over to her spot at the Bar.

"So, how are you liking your first day on the job?", she asked, swirling a glass of mineral water. Pasting on my best "Earnest and/or Eager" expression, I replied, "It's been...a wide-ranging experience, so far". That got me a smirk in reply. "The Cislunar Windsprint is what passes for von Schönberg's idea of a rite of passage. He had to run and fetch all over the Inner System, in the first few months. Now it's your turn."

"Turning to more serious matters..." she said, "My function is to maintain, and provide for, the physical safety and privacy of General Adelanii, primarily, and his Staff, secondarily. As his personal Assistant, your duties naturally dovetail with mine. So consider this your official Security chat".

At my nod, she continued. "First, Niko...the General, that is, is the most famous individual alive. Elvis, the Pope and Flash Gordon rolled into one. This means that people...a lotof people, want to be associated with him. They want to give him stuff. They want to talk to him. Know what he eats. Be seen with him. Have his babies. The works".

She pause and took a sip of her water. "It gets crazy. Heliopolis Civil Service has a small warehouse stacked to the rafters with things people try to give him. Everything from flowers to Ferraris. Same for letters, with all manner of things up to and including death threats and proposals of marriage. The Carabinieri investigate the more serious sounding ones".

"We, you and I, have to protect him from more immediate threats. Given that he spends most of his time Starside or on military bases, we generally don't have to worry about crazies or assassins. Even so, Dieter and Mixy were forced to drag a woman away by her thumbs, last year. An actress of some note, believe it or not. Bitch managed to wrangle a tour of Lunagrad and made her play. The General is married, to a woman he misses very much and fully intends to be reunited with. So he gets understandably distressed when pushy cows move in on him. Hence Ms. "Best New Actress" getting the Treatment from two outraged subadars".

Turning serious, she continued. "Secondly, you have the political angle. He gets confronted by newsies, and others, who want him to give some soundbite on, I don't know...Basque Seperatism! Niko probably doesn't really know who the Basques actually are, nor why they are seperatists...and he probably couldn't care less."

"The last thing the STO needs is our posterchild getting inadvertantly embroiled in the wrongs and rights of some ghetto scale ethnic or religious or economic issue. On the other hand, he can't just go around saying "no comment" to every question about starving children or teacher's strikes...so it's up to us to intervene and run interference whenever it looks like a setup".

"Yes, Miss. Any specific concerns, currently?". "Yeah. We've had to see off a few wannabe Woodward & Bernsteins looking to gin up a scandal from the technical issues plaguing the _Lion_. Watch out for them, and don't hesitate to whistle up my Fusiliers to chase them off. Freedom of the Press does not exist Starside".

"Another pest is the army of loyal fans that can assemble at the speed of Text, whenever the General appears out in public, Earthside. Starside, even the civilians are too disciplined for that, but down here...anything goes. Keep one eyes on the exits and the other on the crowd".

"For examples of how to be a good Officer, look to Dieter and Mixy...SuM Collette, that is. They did this job before you, and they did it well. They know the ropes. Both are headed to big things, and are two of the smartest officers I've met".

"Bottom line: You have complete authority to employ any and all measures you deem necessary to safeguard the health and wellbeing of the General. He cannot be replaced. If he is in danger, you kill to protect him _and I will make it right_".

While this last was being said, a Soldier had entered the lounge and spoken to the General, where he held court by the Bar. Dismissing the trooper, he gathered us up and we staggered out to another SUSV that took us to the airfield. An Egret personnel transport was waiting. Five minutes after strapping down, with the spacecraft still ascending toward orbit, the cider hit me. I woke up 3 hours later, as we settled onto a landing pad at Archimedes.

Wiping the drool from my chin, I fell in with the rest of the retinue and we made our way back to the LRPD offices. Archimedes was entering its "night" phase, with the OLEDs being dimmed slightly. Fewer people were moving about in the sections surrounding the Vault.

Reaching the offices, the General dismissed us and went off to his quarters in the Cantonment. I checked in with von Schönberg, who was punching out for the night, himself. He quizzed me on how the day had gone, told me where to find my quarters and sent me on my way.

At the BOQ, I signed for my keycard and found my billet. I had a 4x5m room, with adjoining full bathroom and walk in closet. The rock walls had been plastered over and painted in the calming earthtones that the psychs said would keep space madness at bay. The bed, with a bare memory foam mattress, dominated the room. A desk and chest of drawers rounded out the furniture.

As promised, my luggage had preceded me, being stacked by the bed. Too tired to do anything properly, I stripped to my panties, rolled into a bedsheet and gave into unconsciousness.

* * *

As always, questions and comments/corrections are welcome and appreciated.

The "Centurion and Hovercraft mix" comes from RDM's Podcast for "Kobol's Last Gleaming" and "Scattered", where he mentions the alternate Kobol plotline. Apollo and some Marines were pinned down in a temple, surrounded by "Centurions and Hovercraft". It had to be pared down to Crashdown/Tyrol's Party, due to budget and wanting to use Apollo in the mutiny storyline.

SuM is the acronym for Subadar-Major (just like GEN = General). Likewise, Su = Subadar.


	13. Act 3 Chapter 4

Su and SuM are acronyms for Subadar and Subadar-Major, respectively.

For all other acronym or terminology problems, refer to the Glossary.

* * *

::Subadar Elspeth "Posh" McAndrews::

My first actual day in the office was taken up, for the most part, with setting up my desk and getting my personal paperwork in order. The latter meant rerouting my mail, hand carrying my medical file to the hospital records department, double-checking my pay status (making sure that MFAS realized I was a subadar on Lunar Duty and not still an Aspirant in North America), and drawing an issue of tactical gear.

My desk was a titanium and carbon fibre construction, situated in the antechamber of the General's office. The desktop PC was one of the new Tempest-rated secured models, with two forms of biometrics (palm and retinal) required to log on.

While spending several hours installing software and configuring the system, I had time to observe the life of the office.

Von Schönberg was in and out of the General's office several times an hour, carrying reports collated by the rest of the Staff. He would discuss action items and courses of action with the General, and decisions such as inspection tours or GO/NO GO recommendations would be made. The technical issues with the _Lion_, along with status questions surrounding several Army/AEC joint projects, dominated these discussions.

SuM Alexis "Mixy" Collette, the Alpha Female of the Division, made her entrance, returning from observing Phase One system checks on board the Lion. Tall and blonde, brown-eyed and full of relentless Texas cheer. It was easy to be intimidated by her. The white silk and cherry blossom sash identifying her as a graduate of the Rikkigun Toyama Gakkom didn't do anything for my confidence, either. Alongside the BayO and the Ziggurat, the RTG formed the Premier Division of the Military School system. Only the best of the best even got their application packet in front of an actual human being at those schools.

Despite my terror, she turned out to be quite nice. We sat and chatted for an hour, while Dieter was in with the General. She filled me in on the various aspects of life on Luna, as it applies to a woman. Knowing that the only salon and spa worth talking about were in Selenopolis (and thus, a 45 minute train shot away), for instance, was worth it's weight in gold.

Mixy, herself, seemed to be the female counterpart to Dieter, despite his officially superior title. They had come in together, with the second draft of subadars to hit the Force, and had been with the General ever since. An easy familiarity colored the interplay between the two.

While I was waiting for the desktop OS to update itself for the seventh time, the General called me in. It turned out to be the first real chance for me to actually talk with him. As I sat, rigidly erect, in one of the sumptuous armchairs surrounding his desk, I studied the sanctum sanctorum of the Fastest Man Alive.

The walls of the large room were covered with cultured mahogany panelling. A massive desk, of matching wood construction, dominated the room opposite the entrance. Behind the General's chair, a bank of six screens displayed news channels and exterior views of Lunagrad, Archimedes, and Artemis. A gigantic Persian rug sat atop the green carpet, covering the center of the room, where the desk and surrounding chairs sat. A small shrine to Vesta was erected on a short table against one wall.

On the desk sat a framed picture. A slim, long-limbed young woman with short, black hair, wearing the blue uniform that passed for Service Dress among the Colonials, smiled at the camera. Iris Xalen-Adellano. One half of the best-known love story on (or off) Earth...or the woman other women loved to hate. Impressive, for someone who none of us had ever shared a star system with.

Behind the wooden fortress of the desk, the General worked, guiding the development of our fighting power. A little dramatic on my part, perhaps, but no less true for that.

Dropping his stylus, he looked up at me, and spoke in his precise form of English. "Right. Elspeth. We had a big month ahead of us. I'm afraid you will have no chance to acclimatize. You will have to jump in and keep your head above the waves."

"First, to anyone _not_ in the Division or the General Staff, my door is closed. If some person shows up without an appointment, and their name is not on the access list, tell them to go bother Dieter. The _Lion_ breaks orbit at the end of the month, and we do not have time for every petitioner who manages to talk his way down here".

I nodded. "Yes, sir".

"Secondly, I have got a field assignment for you. This coming Wednesday, you will catch a shuttle down to El Dorado and receive hardcopy reports from several project heads at MTA. I want you to get eyes-on, as well, and you will have orders to that effect, on my authority. Do not just accept their word on it".

"Lastly, as I said, the _Lion_ deploys for field testing on the 30th. We will be aboard him. You, Mixy, and I. A lot is riding on this, and we are not going to sit down here. As soon as the _Lion_ is certified, we can declare the 1st Space Wing operational, and buy the STO another few years of blank cheques".

I suppressed my excitement and kept nodding.

"Now. You".

"Me, sir?"

"Yes. What do you want out of this assignment, Elspeth?"

I hesitated a moment, trying to roll with the sudden change of subject, then looked into the blue eyes and answered.

"I intend to impress you, sir." That got me a raised eyebrow. "The Force is about to start moving out of Sol System. I want to be part of that. I want to be at a post in the CIC of a Starcruiser when it jumps into a star system that's never felt the eyes of Man. I want a Starcruiser of my own, someday. I want to be a part of it, when we meet the Cylons, out there among the stars. I want…last night, I went to sleep in my bed, _on the Moon_….and I want to see the rest of the Adventure".

I hope I didn't just make myself look a daft cunt….

The General, to my relief, gave me a broad smile. "I think you will fit in around here, Elspeth. You would be shocked just how much you sound like Mixy and Dieter did, two years ago".

Looking me straight in the eye, he continued. "With the current, and projected future rates of expansion, a good number of today's subadars will find themselves in senior command and staff positions before they see their thirtieth birthday. I intend to see that my officers are among them. Everything put on record about you, since the day you applied to SIMS, says you are made of gold. Live up to that….and you will get that Starcruiser. The sky is, as you say, the limit for loyal and capable officers".

Nothing like a pep talk from the Fastest Man Alive to get you motivated. The rest of the day passed in a flurry of setting up Fenster 4.3 and cursing at the Network. After a few hours, having skipped lunch, I had managed to configure my system, such that it no longer made the "DONK!" noise and told me to suck it, when I tried to open up an Orienteer browser window and access SolNet.

At the stroke (well, chime) of 1600hrs, a hand clapped me on the shoulder. Looking up, I found Von Schönberg looming over me, with Mixy following him out of the General's office.

"Knocking-off time, Subadar McAndrews!", he said. "Police up your desk, secure your terminal, see if the General needs anything, then catch up with us. We're about to head to the O-Club for the night".

After locking down my post (including packing all documents and stationery, including the General's Seal of Office, into the wall safe) and checking to see if the General required anything of me (he did not), I hurried to join Dieter and Mixy. They were waiting for me in the Division's lobby.

We left the Divisional offices, passing the Fusiliers standing sentry, and followed the passages out of the Vault. Exiting through the Grand Façade, we headed into the Cantonment.

The atmosphere of the Cantonment was much less focused and zealous than that of the Vault. Spouses and children were a noticeable presence, and even uniformed personnel moved about in a visibly more casual manner. This was where we lived and played.

The HPC-clad tunnels in the Cantonment, while not so spectacular as the great arcades and tubes of Lunagrad, have a….pride to them, that sticks in the mind's eye. Walls were decorated with the crests of various Army, Space Force and Carabinieri units. Crests from each currently operational Space Vehicle adorned the main thoroughfare….centered about a giant shield made out of spare armor plating from the Lion of Terra, and emblazoned with that Vehicle's crest.

Within the Cantonment, the arcades were occupied by shops, clubs (3 Officer, 1 Warrant Officer, 3 NCO and 4 OR) and MWR facilities. Everything from Astronomy courses to fencing to pottery to Renaissance dancing to Singles programs were available. All in an attempt to stop Humanity's champions from going demented.

The club patronized by officers of the LRPD happened to be the Dragon Club, which was closest to the Quarters assigned to most of us (the NCO's of the Division had carved themselves out a fiefdom at the Dark Harvest Tavern, the NCO club a hundred meters down the tunnel).

Having been on Luna as part of my Field Training, I knew that the O Club was the heart of Starside social life, with hours of drinking and socializing following almost every duty day. This is how we weld so many people, from so many different backgrounds, into a single society.

Must be hellish for non-drinkers, though.

When Dieter pushed open the door to the club's main room, I was greeted by bedlam. Over a hundred officers, from subadars to colonels, from all three Services, crowded along the bar, sat at the tables and booths, and leaned against the walls. Waitresses (and, yes, the odd waiter) threaded their way through the throng, delivering drinks and various dishes of pubfare.

The club itself was dressed up to look like some kind of grotto. The walls were carved out of the lunar basalt, with no attempt to smooth them out. The chairs and tables were rolled steel tubing and glass. Vinyl padding cushioned the benches and booths. The bar was carved out of the solid rock, polished to a high sheen, and would probably qualify as a work of art.

I followed in Mixy's wake as she and Dieter bulled their way through the throng. We made our way to a central table, presently occupied by seven other officers, all subadars and subadar-majors, both Army and SF. Most of them I had seen coming and going about the Office. All greeted Dieter and Mixy on sight, and crowded down to make room for us.

"Greetings, Children!", Dieter boomed as he sat down. "Allow me to present to you the newest member of our family." He looked around the table, meeting each officer's eyes and getting a nod in return. "Subadar Elspeth McAndrews. Late of SIMS. She's taking over my old position, and all of you will be liasing with her on a daily basis."

"Elspeth, these criminals, going around the table, are: Su Arundhati Joshi and Ragnar Einarsson", a young woman of South Asian extraction and a slight, blonde man, both in Army uniform; "SuM Chen Ying", a short, delicate Chinese girl; "SuM Chris Ritchie", a broad-shouldered, fair-haired man in the uniform of a Fusilier officer; "Su Victoria Fitzroy", a tall, lanky brunette; "Su Veronique Deladier and Gregory Thompson", a delicate-looking blonde girl and a dark-haired young man, both in SF Casuals.

Joshi, the Indian girl, spoke up. "Elspeth? With a name like that, you must be a Jock!", she said, a pronounced Estuary accent carrying across. I gave her a nod, answering "Yes, from Glasgow, originally. You from London, then?". She bobbed her head. "Yes, though I call Luna home now".

A waitress appeared. Dieter and Mixy ordered beer and a martini, respectively, sharing an appetizer plate. I ordered a pint of Strongbow and the lamb stew, as lunch had decided to make its absence felt. We made small talk until the drinks arrived.

Veronique turned to me. "We were just talking about the _Lion of Terra_, and next month's field tests. I understand the General is taking you and Mixy up with him to oversee them, no?" She had a rolling French accent. "Yes." I answered, "I understand there are some serious tech issues still giving them fits". "Yes. The O2 count keeps dropping in certain areas. Looks like the design team missed a few corners, and the atmosphere is pooling. They've found personnel wandering about, suffering from hypoxia." She spread her hands in a gesture of frustration. "Then there's the lights….".

"The lights?". At this, Ragnar, obviously some breed of Scandinavian, leaned forward. "Ja. The wiring plan is screwed up. There's power surges and brownouts in many sections, at least once an hour. Emissions spikes from radar and lidar, as well as the main antenna arrays. Feedback over the intercom. All manner of artifacts. The engineer teams from the Arsenal are tracking the problems down, but it's slow going". He shrugged. "The guns work, though".

In the middle of Thompson explaining his concerns about the FTL trials, the chatter near the entrance cut off. Looking over, I saw the men and women near the door straighten up and shift positions. As the ripple reached the centre of the room, we saw the General walking towards us, nodding to some of the officers rising out of their seats. Two of Costa's subordinates, capable looking Fusilier officers, followed him.

"As you were", he said, sitting down in a vacated chair near our table. The bartender handed a small bottle and a merlot glass to the waitress, who hurried over and placed it in front of the General.

I leaned over to Mixy, "What's in the bottle?". "_Dansk Mjød". At my look of confusion, she explained, "It's mead. Honey wine. Loves the stuff. Says it reminds him of the Colonial's national beverage"._

As the General flipped the top on the earthenware bottle and poured himself a measure of the clear golden liquid, I could see a quiet surge of people at the bar, trying to casually order themselves a bottle of the mead. What a bunch of suckups!

As I returned from the bar with my bottle of mead, the General was talking to one of the Army lieutenants I'd seen mingling earlier. I reclaimed my seat and listened in.

"….so we were wondering, sir, if you had an opinion on engaging Terminators at close quarters. I know you were a pilot, but-"

Snorting in amusement at the Army term for Cylon robots, the General broke in "Oh, I have fought Centurions up close. Not out of personal preference, trust me". Pausing, he took a swallow of the mead (which I found to be overly sweet, but refreshing). Dieter leaned over to me, murmuring, "You're in luck. We're getting a war story!" The room had dropped into a deep hush.

"Right after we found Kobol, the Admiral got shot by one of the skinjobs….Infiltrator models, that is, and our XO had to assume command. During the confusion, we'd lost the rest of the Fleet during a jump, and had to jump back into the teeth of a Cylon assault to link back up with them".

"We got boarded during the fight, by a squad of Centurions. Their strategy was to storm our auxiliary command posts, allowing them to decompress the whole Vehicle, then turn our guns on the Fleet. Managed to cut the power, too. Running firefights, all across Galactica".

"You'd hear small arms fire, screaming and shouting. Run towards it. Arrive thirty seconds later….and find nothing but spent cartridges and the odd blood spatter. The fight had moved on".

"I had joined up with Sergeant Hadrian's marine party, and we'd run two of the Centurions down. We'd raided a small arms locker for HE rounds, so it was the Toasters running scared, for a change. They cut through the hull, ahead of us, and decompressed that section, and managed to break contact while we routed around the section that was open to space. If a scratch team hadn't managed to ambush them in front of Auxiliary Damage Control…we wouldn't be having this conversation".

"Best we could come up with was to catch them at their point of insertion. Failing that, you set up a defense-in-depth and wait for them to come to you. MTA has a couple of programs in the works that might even the odds".

At that, Thompson spoke up. "General, what's the word on the Grand Survey?" Which got everyone's attention. The initial expeditions to the nearest stars were, naturally, a subject of much interest to everyone who wore the uniform.

"Only that the Council wants all three Starcruisers in Tranche One operational, before they will give their blessing to us slicing off one to explore the local area. They are naturally concerned about us spreading ourselves too thin, and leaving the Inner System uncovered….in case we receive any unwelcome visitors".

"Is that likely, sir?", asked an SF subadar from over near the dartboards. The General's reaction was interesting. He hesitated a moment, as if considering where he should say something or not, before answering.

"No. Even given the more capable Cylon drives, we have at least another decade before we can reasonably expect the leading edge of their scouting forces". Which was about as close as any officer was going to come to publically discussing the still-officially-classified Neumann Report. Or rather, its leaked fragments.


End file.
